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AND OTHER TAI-ES. 


BY MRS. HENRY WOOD 


17 TO 27 VaNdeWater 3t 
•J^EWYO^K;- 




ion ^(5 per annum, 


The Se^ide Library, Pocket Eaition, issm 


THE 


New York Fireside Companion, 


Essenlially a Paper for tie Home Circle. 


PURE, BRIGHT AND INTERESTING. 


THE. FIRESIDE COMPANION numbers among its contributors the best of 

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living fiction writers. 

Its Detective Stories are the most absorbing ever published, and its spe- 
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17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


THE MYSTERY 



ESSY PAGE 


AND OTHER TALES. 


Bv xMRS. HENRY WOOD. 

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God sent liis Singers upon earth 
With songs of sadness and of mirth, 

That they might touch the hearts of men, 

And bring them back to heaven again. 

Longfellow. 




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NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUJ3LISHER, 


17 to 27 Vandewatkr Street. 


*3 


4 - 


-o 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE 3 

CRABB RAVINE 34 

OUR VISIT 66 

JANET CAREY 84 


DR. KNOX 


100 


THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE 


PART THE FIRST. 

THE DISAPPEARANCE. 

You may think this a curious title, but the history is a perfectly 
true one. The affcair occurred in our neiffhborhooci many years 
ago; people spoke of it at the time as “ The Mystery of Jessy Page,” 
and they so speak of il to this day. 

It can hardly be necessary to recall to your lecollection certain par- 
ticulars connected with these stones. But, to do so briefly, 1 here 
repeat the few words of explanation given when the last volumes 
were published, Mr. Todhetley, commonly called the squire, had 
two estates. The chief one. Dyke Manor, lay on the borders of 
Worcestershire and Warwickshire, partly in both counties; the 
other, CrabbCot, was a smaller place altogether, and lay much nearer 
Worcester, Sometimes we stayed at one place, sometimes at the 
other. By an arrangement with Mr. Brandon, my guardian and the 
trustee to my property, 1, Johnny Ludlow, lived with the Todhet- 
leys. Mis. 1 odhetley, the squire’s second wife, was my step-mother, 
my father— William Ludlow ot the Court— having married her after 
my own mother’s death. Aftar my father’s death, which took place 
speedily, she became the wife of Squire Todhetley, and the step- 
mother of his only son and heir, Joseph. Two children were sub- 
sequently boiD, Hugh and Lena, to whom Joseph was of course the 
half-brother. Joseph, unlike myself, had been old enough to resent 
the advent of a step-mother when she came: indulged and haughty 
he did not like the gentle control she brought; though she was good 
as gold, as loving to him as he would permit, and kind to every- 
body. 1 don’t say but that she was tall and thin as a lamp-post, 
with a mild face given to having aches in it, scanty, fine, light hair, 
and kindly blue eyes; so she had not mueh to boast ot in the way of 
appearance. Joe and 1 grew up together like brothers: he was 
several years the elder and domineered over me absolutely. At 
school he was always called “ Tod,” and 1 fell into the same habit. 
This much comprises the explauation: and now we will go on to the 
first story, “ The Mj^stery of Jessy Page.” 

Our old gray church at Church Dykely stood in a solitary spot. 
Servant-maids (two of ours once, Hannah and Molly), and silly 
village girls went there sometimes to watch for the ” sbadow^s ” on 
St, Mark’s Eve, and owls had a habit ot dashing out of the belfry 


4 


THE MYSTEKY OF JESSY PAGE. 


at night. Within view of the church, though at some distance from 
it, stood the lonely, red biick, angular dwelling house belonging 
to Copse Farm, It was inhabited l^y Mr. Page, a plain worthy 
widower, getting in years; his three diiughters and little son. Abi- 
gail and Susan Page, two experienced, sensible, industrious young 
women, with sallow faces and bunches of short dark curls, were at 
this period, nearly midway between twenty and thirty: Jessy, very 
much younger, was gone out to get two years’ “finishing” at a 
plain boarding-school; Charles, the lad, had poor health, and went 
to school by day at Church Dykely. 

Mr. Page fell ill. He would never be able to get about much 
again. His two daughters, so far as in-door work a^d management 
went, were hosts in themselves, Miss Abigail especially; but they 
could not mount a horse to superintend out of doors. Other arrange- 
ments were made. The second son of Mr. Drench, a neighboring 
farmer and friend, came to the Copse Farm by day as overlooker, 
lie was paid for his services, and he gained experience. 

No sooner had John Drench, a silent, bashful ^oung farmer, 
well- looking and fairly- well educated, been installed in his new post, 
than he began to show a deciiied admiration for Miss Susan Page — 
who was a tew months younger than himself. The slight advances 
he made were favorably received; and it was tacitly looked upon 
that they were “ as good as engaged.” Things went on pleasantly 
all the spring, and might have continued so to go on, but for the 
coining home at midsummer of the youngest daughter, Jess3\ That 
led to no end of cross-grained contrariety. 

She was the sweetest flower you ever saw; a fair, delicate lily, 
with a mild countenance, blue eyes, and liair of a golden tinge. 
Jess}'" has never been very strong; she had always been very pretTy; 
and the consequence was' that while her sisters had grown up to be 
useful, not to be a minute idle throughout the long day, Jessy had 
been petted and indulged, and was not much except ornamental. 
The two years’ schooling had not improved her taste for domestic 
occupation. To tell the truth, Jessy was given to be uncommonly 
idle. 

To John Drench, who had not seen her since her early girlhood, 
she appeared as a vision of beauty. “ It was like an angel coming 
in at the door,” he said of the day she first came home, when telling 
the tale to a stranger in after years. “ My eyes were fairly dazzled. ” 

Like an angel! And unfortunately for John Drench, his heart 
was dazzled as w'ell as his eyes. He fell desperately in love with 
her. it taught him that what he had felt for Miss Susan was not 
love at all; only esteem, and the liking that so often arises from 
companionship. He was well-meaning, but inexperienced. As he 
had never spoken to Busan, the utmost sign he had given being a 
look or a warmer hand-shake than usual, he thought there would 
be no difficulty in transferring liis homage to the younger sister. 
Busan Page, who really loved him, and perhaps looked ori with the 
Keen eyes of jealousy, grew at last to see how matters were. She 
would have liked to put him in a corn-sack and give him a good 
shaking by way of cure. Thus the summer months went over in 
some silent discomfort, and September came in wmrm and fine. 

Jessy Page stood at the open parlor window in her airy summer 


THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 5 

muslin, twirling a rose in Her hand, blue ribbons falling from her 
hair; for Jessy liked to set herself oH in little adornments. She 
was lauehing at John Drench outside, who had appeared covered 
with mud from the pond, into which he had contrived partially to 
slip when they were dragging for eels. 

“ 1 think your picture ought to be taken, just as you look now 
Mr. John.” 

He thought hers ought; the bright fair face, the laughing blue 
eyes, the parted lips and the pretty white teeth presented a picture 
that, to him, had never had its equal. He could not answer at first 
for looking at her. 

” Do you. Miss Jessy? That’s a fine rose,” he shyly added. He 
was always shy with her. 

She held it out. She had not the least objection to be admired, 
even by John Drench in a state of mud. In their hearts, women 
have all hankered after men’s flattery from Eve downward. 

” These large roses are the sweetest of any,” she went on. “ I 
plucked it from the tree beyond the grass-plat.” 

‘‘ You are fond of flowers, I’ve noticed. Miss Jessy.” 

” Yes, that 1 am. Both for themselves and for the language they 
symbolize.”. 

” VYhat language is it?” 

” Don’t you know? I learnt it at school. Each flower possesses 
its owm meaning, Mr. John Drench. This, the rose, is true love.” 

” True love, is it. Miss Jessy?” 

She was lightly flirting it right before his face. It was too much 
for him, and he took it gently from her. ‘‘ Will you give it me?” 
he asked below his breath. 

‘‘ Oh, with great pleasure.” And then she lightly added, as if to 
damp the eager look on his face; “There are plenty more on the 
same tree.” 

“ An emblem of true love,” he softly repeated. “ It’s a pretty 
thought. 1 wonder who invented — ” 

“ Now then, John Drench, do you know that tea’s waiting. Are 
you going to sit down in those muddy boots and leggings?” 

The sharp words came from Susan Page. Jessy turned and saw 
her sister's pale, angry face. John Dr6nch disappeared, and Miss 
Susan went out again, and banged the door. 

“ It is high time Jessy was put to some regular employment.” 
cried Susan, bursting into the room where Miss Page sat making the 
tea. “ She idles away her time in the most frivolous and wasteful 
manner, never doing an earthly thing. It is sinful.” 

“So it is,” acquiesced Miss Page. “Have you a headache, 
Susan? You look pale.” 

“ Never mind my looks,” said wrathful Susan. “ We will por- 
tion out some share of work for her from to-day. She might make 
up the butter, and undertake the pies and puddings, and do the plain 
sewing.” 

William Page, a gray-haired man, sitting with a stick by his side, 
looked up. “Pretty creature!” he said, for he fondly loved his 
youngest daughter. “ I’ll not have her hard- worked, Susan.” 

“ But you’d not have her sit with her hands before her from Mon- 


6 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 

day morning till Saturday night, 1 suppose, father!” sharply re- 
turned Miss Susan. ” She’ll soon he nineteen.” 

“No, no; idleness brings naught but evil in its train. 1 didn’t 
mean that, Susan. Let the child do what is suitable for her. 
Where’s John Drench?” 

“ Jle is in a fine mess— up to his middle iu mud,” was Miss 
Susan’s tart answer. “ One w'ould think he had been trying to see 
how great an object he could make of himself.” 

John Drench came in, somew'hat cleansed, his coat changed and 
the rose in nis button-liole. He took his seat at the tea-table and 
was more shy and silent than ever. Jessy sat by her father, chat- 
tering gayly, her blue ribbons flickering berore his loving ej’^es. 
Once he caught hold of an end of the shining silk, and held it for a 
moment to his lips. 

But the butter-making and the other light work was fated not to 
be inaugurated yet for Jessy. Charles Page, a tiresome, indulged 
lad of twelve, became ill again: he was subject to attacks of low 
fever and ague. !Mr. Duffham, peering at the boy over his gold 
headed cane, said there was nothing for it but a dose of good sea- 
side air. Mr. Page, anxious for his boy, began to consult with his 
daughters as to how it might be obtained. They had some very 
distant connections named Allen, living at Aberyst wdth. To them 
Miss Page wrote, asking it they could take in Charles and one of his 
sisters to board for a month or so. Mrs. Allen replied that she 
would be glad to have them; since her husband’s death she had 
eked out a scanty income by letting lodgings. 

It was Jessy who went with hiD». The house and farm could not 
have spared Abigail; Susan said neither should it spare her. The 
iille and useless one had to go— Jessy. IMiss Susan thought she and 
John Drench were well rid of tho young lady. 

September was in its second week when they w^ent; November 
was at its close w hen they returned. The improvement in Charles 
had been so marked and wonaerful— as Mrs. Allen and Jessy both 
wrote to say— that Mr. Duffham had strongly uiged his staying as 
long as the weather remained favorable. It w'as a remarkably fine 
late autumn that year, and they stayed till November’s close. 

Charles came home well and strong. Jessy was more beautiful 
tlian ever; radiant to behold. But there w\as some change in her. 
The light-hearted, talking, laughing girl had grown rather sdent; 
she was often singing snatches of love songs to herself in a low 
voice, and there was a light in her eyes, as of some intense, secret 
Irappiness that a;ight not be told. John Drench, wdio had begun to 
show signs of returning to his old allegiance (at least. Miss Susan so 
flattered herself), fell a willing captive again forthwith, and had 
certainly neither eyes nor ears for anybody but Jessy. Susan Page 
came to the conclusion that a shaking in a sack would he far too 
good for him. 

******* 

The way of dressing the churches for Christmas is those past days 
was quite different from the new' style of “decoration” obtaining now. 
Sprays of holly w iih llieir red berries, of ivy with its brown clus- 
ters, were stuck, each alternately, into the holes on the top of the 
pews. It was a belter way than tbe present, far more effective— 


THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 


7 

though 1, Johnny Ludlow, shall be no doubt laughed at for saying it. 
"Your woven wreaths tied round the pulpit and reading-desk; your 
lettered scrolls, made of white wadding gummed on pink or crim- 
son ground and plastered against the walls; your artificial flowers, 
yellow, blue, salmon, 1 know not how many colors, may be 
talked of as “artistic,” but for effect they all stand absolutely 
as nothing, in comparison with the more simple and natural way, 
and they are, perhaps, the least bit tawdry. If you don’t believe 
me, pay a visit to some rural church next Christmas morning — for 
the old fashion is observed in many a country district still— and 
judge for yourselves. Upon entering, you seem to pass into a 
bright atmosphere; a wide arena of cheery evergreens, symbolical of 
the day. Like many another custom that has been changed by the 
folly and fashion of these later days of pretension, and not changed 
tor the better, lies this one. That is my opinion, and 1 hold to it. 

The dressing in our church was always done by the clerk, old 
Bumtord. The sexton (called familiarly with us the grave- digger) 
helped him when his health allowed, but he was nearly always ill, 
and then Bumford himself had to be grave-digger. It was not much 
trouble, this manner of decoration, and it took very little time. 
They had only to cut off the sprays nearly of the same size, smooth 
the ends, and lodge them in the holes. In the last century when a 
new country church was lebuilt (though it did not happen often), 
the drilling of these holes in the woodwork of the pews, for the re- 
ception of the “ Christmas,” was as much a matter of course as 
were the pews themselves. Our Christmas was supplied by Mr, 
Page with a liberal hand; the Copse Farm abounded with trees of 
holly and ivy; one of his men. Leek, would help Bumford to cut 
it, and to cart it in a hand-truck to the church. It took a good lot 
to do all the pews. 

On this Christmas that 1 am telling you of, it fell out that Clerk 
Bumford and the sexton were disabled. Both of them. Bumford 
had rheumatic gout so badly that his feet were the size of half a 
dozen — and getting him into church for the morning service the 
past three Sundays had been a marvel of dexterity— w bile the sexton 
was in bed with what he called catarrh. At first it seemed that we 
should not get the church dressed at all: but the Miss Pages, ever 
ready and active in a good work, came to the rescue, and said they 
would do It themselves, with John Drench’s help. The squire was 
not going to be behind-hand, and said we boys, for Tod and I were 
just home for the holidays, should help too. 

And when Christmas Eve came, and Leek had w^heeled up the 
holly, and we w^ere all in the cold church (not I think that any of 
us cared w^hether it was cold or warm), we enjoyed the work amaz- 
ingly, and decided that old Bumford should never be let do it 
again, gout or no gout. 

Jessy Page was a picture. The two elder ladies had on tight dark 
cloth dresses, like a riding-habit cut short at the ankles: Jessy was 
in a bright blue mantle edged with swan’s-down, and a blue bonnet 
on her pretty hair. She came in a little late, anrl Miss Susan sharp- 
ly blew her up for putting on that “ best Sunday cape ” to dress a 
church in: but Jessy only laughed good-naturedly, and answered 
that she would take care not to harm it. Susan Page, trimming 


8 THE ]iIYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 

the branches, had seen Jolm Drench’s eyes fixed on the girl: and 
lier knite worked away like mad in her vexation. 

“ Look here,” said Jessy: “ we have never had any Christmas 
over the pulpit; 1 think old Bumford was afraia to get up to do it; 
let us put some. It would hide that ugly nail in the wall.” 

“ There are no holes up in the wall,” snapped Miss Susan. 

“ 1 meant a large bunch; a bunch ot holly and ivy mixed, Susan. 
John Drench could tie it to the nail: it would look beautiful.” 

” 1 11 do it, too,” said John. “ I’ve some string in my pocket. 
The parson won’t know himself. ’Twill be as good as a canopy 
over him.” 

Miss Page turned round: she and Charley had their arms full of 
the branches we bad been cutting. 

” Put a bunch there, if you like, but let us finish the pews first,” 
she said. “ If we go from one thing to another we shall not finish 
while it’s daylight.” 

It was plain good sense: she rarely spoke anything else. Once 
let darkness overtake us, and the dressing would be done for. The 
chuich knew nothing about evening service, and had never felt the 
want of means to light itself up. 

” 1 shall pick out the best sprays in readiness,” whispered Jessy 
to me, as we sat together on the bench by the big christening bowl, 
she choosing branclies, 1 trimming them and cutting the ends level. 
“ Look at tills one! )mu could not count the berries on it.” 

” Did you enjoy your visit to Aber 3 ’^ 8 twiih, Jessy?” 

1 wondered what there was in my simple question to move her. 
The branch of holly w^nt anywhere; her hands met in a silent 
clasp; the expression of her face changed to one of curious happi- 
ness. In answering, her voice fell to a whisper. 

” Yes, 1 enjoyed it.” 

” 'lYhat a long time you stayed! An age, Mrs, Todhetley says.” 

“ It was nearly eleven weeks.” 

*‘ Eleven weeks! How tedious!” 

Her face was glowing, her eyes had a sweet light in them. She 
caught up some holly, and began scattering its berries. 

“ What did you do with yourself, Jessy?” 

“ 1 used to sit by the sea — and to walk about. It was very fine. 
They don’t have it like that in November, Mrs. Allen said.” 

” Did Mrs. Allen sit and walk wiHi you*-*” 

No, She had enough to do with the house and her lodgers. 
We only saw her at meal times.” 

” The Miss Allens, perhaps?” 

” There are no Miss Allens, Only one little boy.” 

” Why, then, you had no one but Charley!” 

Charley? Oh, he used to be always about with little Tom Allen 
— in a boat, or something of that sort. Mrs. Allen thought the sea 
breezes must be so good for him.” 

“ Well, you must have been dull!” 

Jessy looked rather foolish. She was a simple-minded girl at the 
best. The two elder sisters liad all the strong sense of the family, 
she the simplicity. Some people called Jessy Page “ soft;” per- 
haps, as contrasted with her sisters, she was so: and she was very 
inexperienced. 


THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 


9 


The dusk was gathering, and Charley had gone out tired, when 
John Drench got into the pulpit to tie the bunch of holly to the 
wall above it. Tod was with him. Drench had his hands stretched 
out, and we stood watching them in a group in the aisle below, when 
the porch door was burst open, and in leaped Charles. 

“Jessy! Isay! Where’s Jessy?’' 

“ 1 ani here,” said Jessy, looking round. “ What do you want?” 

“ Here’s Mr. Marcus Allen.” 

Who Mr, Marcus Allen mi^ht be, Charles did not say. Jessy 
knew: there was no doubt of that. Her face, juBt then close to miiie, 
had hushed as red as a rose in June. 

A tall, dark, imposing man came looming out of the dusk. His 
handsome, furred great coat was open, his waistcoat was of crimson 
velvet; he wore two chains, three rings, and an eyeglass. And I’ll 
leave you to judge of the effect this vision of grandeur made, drop- 
ping down on us plain church-dressers in our every day clothes. 
John Drench leaned over the pulpit cushion, string in hand; the 
two Miss Pages stood staring; Jessy turned white and red with the 
unexpected amazement. It was to her he approached, and spoke. 

“ How do you do, Miss Jessy?” 

gJie put her hand out in answer to his; but seemed to have been 
struck as dumb as the old stone image on the monument against 
the wall. 

“ These are your sisters, i presume. Miss Jessy? Will you do me 
the honor to introduce me to them?” 

“Mr. Marcus Allen,” murmured Jessy, redder now than any 
cabbage rose. “ My sister Abigail ; my sister Susan.” 

Mr, Marcus Allen, bowing over his hht, said something about the 
pleasure it gave him to make their acquaintance personally, after 
hearing so much of them from Miss Jessy at Aberystwith, and 
begged to be allowed to shake their hands. Miss Page, when the 
handshaking was over, said in her straightforward way that she did 
not know who he was, h-er young sister never havimr mentioned 
him. Jessy, standing like a Httle simpleton, her eyes bent down on 
the aisle bricks, murmured in confusion that she “ forgot it.” 
John Drench had his face over the cushion all that while and Tod’s 
arms began to ache, holding up the bunch of green. 

Mr. Marcus Allen, it turned out, was related in some way to the 
Allens of Aberystwith: he happened to go to the town soon after 
Jessy Page and her brother went there, and he stayed until they left 
if. Not at the Allens’ house: he had lodgings elsewhere. Mrs. 
Allen spoke of him to Jessy as a “ grand gentleman, quite above 
them,” An idea came over me, as we all now stood together, that 
he had been Jessy’s companion in the walking and the sitting by 

the sea. , 

“ 1 tolfl Miss Jessy that 1 should be running down some day to 
renew my acquaintanceship with her and make that of her family, 
said Mr. Marcus Allen to Miss Page. “ Having no particular en- 
gagement on my hands, this Christmas time, i came.” 

He spoke in the most easy manner conceivable: his accent and 
manner were certainly those of a gentleman. As to the fashionable 
attire and the rings and chains, rather startling though they looked 


10 


THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE, 


to us in the dark church on that dark and busy eveniug, they were 
all tlie rage for dandies in the great world then. 

Noticing the intimation that he had come purposely to see them, 
Miss Page supposed that she ought, in hospitably good mann{‘rs, to 
invite him to stay a day or two at the farm, but doubted whether so 
imposing a gentleman would condescend to it. She said nothing 
about it then, and we all went out of the church together; except 
.John Drench, who sta3’’ed behind with Leek to help clear up the 
litter tor the man to carry away. It was light outside, and I took 
a good look at the stranger, a handsome man of seven-or-eight and- 
twent}’’, with hard eyes, and black whiskers curled to perfection. 

“ In what way is he related to the Allens of Aberystwith, Jessy?” 
questioned Miss Page, drawing her sister away, as we went through 
the coppice. 

” 1 don’t quite know, Abigail. He is some distant cousin.” 

” How came you never to speak of him?” 

” I — 1 did not think to.” 

” Very careless of you, child. Especially if he gave you cause to 
suppose he might come here. 1 don’t like to be taken by surprise 
by strangers; it is not always convenient.” 

Jessy walked along in silence, meek as a lamb. 

” What is he?-— in any profession, or trade?” 

‘‘ Trade? Oh, I don’t think he does anything of that kind, 
Abigail. That branch of the family would be above it, Mrs. Allen 
said. He has a great income, she says; plenty of money.” 

” 1 take it, then, that he is above us,’* reasoned Miss Page. 

” Oh, dear, yes; in station. Ever so much.” 

” Then I’m sure 1 don’t care to entertain him.” 

Miss Page went straight into the best kitchen on arriving at 
home. Her father sat inVhe large hearth corner, smoking his pipe. 
She told him about the stranger, and said she supposed they must 
ask him to stay over the morrow — Christmas Day. 

‘‘ Why shouldn’t we?” asked Mr. Page. 

‘‘ Well, father, he seems very grand and great.” 

” Does he? Give him the best bedroom.” 

” And our ways are plain, you know,” she added. 

” He must take us as he finds us, Abigail. Any friend of Mrs. 
Allen’s is welcome; she was downright kind to the children.” 

We had a jolly tea. Tod and 1 had been asked to it beforehand. 
Pork-pies, Miss Susan’s make, and hot buttered batch cakes, and 
lemon cake and jams. Mr. Marcus Allen was charmed with every- 
thing; be was a pleasant man to talk to. When we left he und Mr. 
Page had gone to the best kitchen again, to smoke together in the 
wide chimney corner. 

You Londoners, who go in for your artistic scrolls and crosses 
should have seen the church on Christmas morning. It burst upon 
our sight, as we entered from the porch, like a capacious grove of 
green, on which the sun streamed through the south windows. Old 
Bumford’s dressing had never been as full and handsome as this of 
ours, tor we had rejected all niggardly sprays. The squire even 
allowed that much. Shaking hands with Miss Page in the porch 
after service, he told her that it cut Clerk Bumford out and out. 


THE MYSTERY OE JESSY PAGE. 


11 


Mr. Marcus Allen, in fashionable coat, with the furred overcoat 
flung back, light gloves, and big white wristbands, was in Pages’ 
pew, sitting between old Page and Jessy. He found all the places 
for her in her prayei-book (a shabby red one, some ot the leaves 
loose); bowing slightly every time he handed her the book, as if 
sli 3 had been a princess ot the blood royal. Such gallantry was 
new in our parts; and the congregation were rather taken oft their 
devotions watching it. As to J^essy, she kept flushing like a rose. 

Mr. Marcus Allen reuiained more than a week, staying over 
Kew Year’s Day. He made himself popular with them all, and 
enjoyed what Miss Abigail called their plain ways, just as though 
he had been reared in them. He smoked his pipe in the kitchen 
w’ith the farmer; he drove Miss Susan to Alcester in the tax-cart; 
he presented Miss Abigail with a handsome work-box; and gave 
Charley a bright half-sovereign for bull’s-eyes. As to Jessy, he did 
not take more notice of her than he did of her sisters; hardly as 
much; so that if Miss Susan had been entertaining any faint hope 
that his object in coming to the Copse was Jessy, and that in con- 
sequence John Drench might escape from bewitching wiles, she 
found the hope fallacious.' Mr. Marcus Allen had apparently no 
more thought of Jessy than he had ot Sally, the red-armed serving- 
girl. “ But what in the world brought the man here at all?” ques- 
tioned Miss Susan ot her sister. ‘‘ He wanted a bit of countiy holi- 
day,” answered Miss Page with her common sense. 

One day during the week the squire met them abroad, and gave 
an impromptu invitation to the manor for the evening. Only the 
three Miss Pages came. Mr. Marcus Allen sent his compliments, 
and begged tol^e excused on the score of headache. 

One evening at dusk we met him and Jessy. She had been out 
on some errand, and he overtook her in the little coppice path be- 
tween the church and the farm. Tod, dashing through it to get 
liome for dinner, 1 after him, nearly dashed right upon them. 
Marcus Allen had his face inside her bonnet, as it he were speaking 
in the ear of a deaf old lady ot seventy. Tod burst out laughing 
when we got on. 

” That fellow was stealing a sly kiss in the dark, Johnny. 

‘‘Like his impudence.” 

“Rubbish to impudence,” retorted Tod. “It’s Christmas-tide, 
and all iair. Didn’t vou see the bit of mistletoe he was holding 
up?” And Tod ran on, whistling a line of a song that the squire 
used to sing in his young days: 

“ We all love a pretty girl, under the rose.” 

Mr. Marcus Allen left the Copse Farm with hearty thanks for its 
hospitality. He promised to come again in the summer, when the 
fields should be sweet with their mounds ot hay and the golden corn 
was ripening. , . 

No sooner had he gone than John Drench asked Jessy to promise 
to be his wife. Whether he had felt any secret jealousy of Mr. 
Marcus Allen and his attractions, and deemed it well to secure Jessy 
as soon as the coast was clear, he spoke out. Jessy did not receive 
the honor kindly. She tossed her pretty head in violent rage; the 
idea, she said, ot her marrying him. Jessy had never flirted with 
John Drench since the Aberystwith journey, or encouraged him in 


12 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 

any way’~that much was certain. There ensued unpleasantness at 
the farm. J\lr. Page decidedly approved of the suitor; he alone had 
perceived nothing of Susan’s hopes; and, perhaps for the first time 
in his life, he spoke sharply to Jessy. John Drench was not to be 
despised, he told her; his father was a wealthy man, and John 
would have a substantial portion; more than double enough to put 
him into the largest and best farm in the country; Mr. Drench was 
only waiting for a good one to fall in, to take it for him. No; Jessy 
would not listen. And as the days went on and John Drench, as 
she said, strove to push his suit on every opportunity, she conceived, 
or professed, a downright aversion to him. Sadly miseiable indeed 
she seemed, crying often; and saying she w’ould rather go out to be 
a lady’s raaia to some well-born lady than stay at home to be perse- 
cuted. Miss Susan was in as high a state of rapture as the iniquity 
of false John Drench permitted; and said it served the man right 
for making an oaf of himself. 

“ Let be,” cried old Page of Jessy. “ She’ll come to her senses 
in time.” But Miss Abigail, regarding Jessy in silence with her 
critical eyes, took up the notion that the girl had some inward source 
of discomfort, with which John Drench had nothing to do. 

It was close upon this, hardly beyond the middle of January, 
when one Monday evening Duffham trudged over from Cliurcli 
Dykcly to have a match at chess with the squire. Hard weather 
had set in; ice and snow lay on the ground. Mrs. Todhetley nursed 
her face by the tire, for she had toothache as usual; Tod watched 
the chess; 1 was reading. In the midst of a silence the door opened, 
and old Thomas ushered in John Drench, a huge red comforter round 
liis neck, his hat in his hand. 

” Good-evening, squire; good-evening, ma’am,” said he in his 
shy way, nodding separately to the rest of us, as he unwound the 
comforter. ‘‘I’ve come for Miss Jessy, please.” 

” Come for Miss Jessy!” was the squire’s surprised echo. ” Miss 
Jessy’s not here. Take a seal, Mr. John.” 

‘‘Not here?” cried Drench, opening his eyes in something like 
aftright, and totally disregarding the invitation to sit down. ‘‘Not 
here! Why where can she have got lo? Surely she has not fallen 
down in the snow and ice, and disabled herself!” 

” Why did you think she was here?” 

‘‘1 don’t know,” he replied, after a pause, during which he 
seemed to be lost. ‘‘ Miss Jessy was not at home at tea; later, when 
1 was leaving tor the night. Miss Abigail asked me if 1 would come 
over here first and fetch Jessy. 1 pul no questions, but came oflt at 
once.” 

“ She has not been here” said Mrs. Todhetley. ‘‘I have not 
seen Jessy Page since yesterday afternoon, when 1 spoke to her 
coming out of church,” 

John Drench looked about as mystified as man can well look. 
That there must have been some misapprehension on Miss Page’s 
part; or else on his, and he had come to the wrong house; or that 
poor Jessy had come to grief in the snow on licr way to us, seemed 
certain. He drank a glass of ale. and went away. 

They were over again at breakfast time in the morning, John 
Drench and Miss Abigail herself, bringing strange news. The 


THE MYSTERY OP JESSY PAGE. 


13 


latter’s face turned white as she told it. Jessy Page had not been 
found. John Drench and two of the men had been out all night in 
the fields and lanes, searching for her. Miss Abigail gave us the 
reasons for thinking Jessy had come to Dyke Manor. 

On the Sunday afternoon, when the Miss Pages went home from 
church, Jessy, instead of turning in-doors with them, continued her 
way onward to the cottage of a poor old woman named Matt, saying 
Mrs. Todhetley had told her the old granny was very ill. At six 
o’clock, when they had tea — tea was always late on Sunday even- 
ings, as Sally had leave to stay out gossii)ing for a good hour after 
service — it was discovered that Jessy had not come in. Charley 
was sent out after her, and met her at the gate. She had a chiding 
from her sister for staying out after dark had fallen; but all she 
said in excuse was, that the old granny v asso very ill. That passed. 
On the Monday, soon after dinner, she came down-stairs with her 
things on, saying she was going over to Dyke Manor, having prom- 
ised Mrs. Todhetley to let hei know the real state of Granny Matt. 
“ Don’t thee get slipping in the snow, Jessy,” said Mr. Page to her, 
half jokingly. ” No danger, father,” she replied; and w^ent up and 
kissed him fondly. As she did not return by tea-time Miss Page 
took it for granted she w’as staying the evening with us. Since 
that, she had not been seen. 

It seemed very odd. Mrs. Todhetley said that in talking with 
Jessy in the porch, she had incidentally mentioned the sickness of 
Granny Matt. Jessy immediately said she would go there and see 
her; and if she found lier very ill would send word to Dyke Manor. 
TalK as they would, there was no more to be made of it than that : 
Jessy had quitted home to come to us, and was lost by the way. 

Lost to her friends, at any rate, if not to herself. John Drench 
and Miss Page departed; and all day long the search after Jessy 
and the speculation as to what had becoine of her continued. At 
first, no one had glanced at anything except some untoward acci- 
dent as the sole likely cause, but gradually the opinions veered 
round to a different fear. They began to think she might have run 
away! 

Run away to escape Mr. John Drench’s persevering attentions; 
and to seek the post of lady’s-maid— which she had been expressing 
a wish for. John stated, however, that he had 7ioi peisecuted her; 
that he had resolved to let a little time go by in silence, and then 
try his luck again. Granny Matt was questioned, aird declared 
most positively that the young lady had notstayedten minutes with 
her; that it was only “duskish” when she went away. “ Dusk- 
ish ” at that season, in the broad open country, with the white snow 
on the ground, would mean about five o’clock. 'What had Jessy 
done with herself during the other hour— tor it was past six when 
she got home— and why should she have excused her tardiness by 
implying that Granny Matt's illness had kept her? 

No one could fathom it. No one ever knew. She might have 
gone up in a balloon and paid a visit to the moon during that hour, 
for all that w’as learned to the contrary, then or in the time to come. 
Before that first day of trouble w^as over, John Drench suggested 
wmise. Deeply mortified at its being said that she might have run 
away from him, he breathed a hasty retort- that it was more likely 


14 THE MYSTEKY OF JESSY PAGE. 

she had been run away with by Mr. Marcus Allen. Had William 
Page been stronj^ enough he had certainly knocked him down for 
the aspersion. Susan heard it with a scared face; practi(;al Miss 
Al)igail sternly demanded upon what grounds bespoke. Upon no 
grounds in particular, Drench honestly answered: it was a thought 
that came into his mind and he spoke it on the spur of the moment. 
Any way, it was most unjust to say he had sent her. 

The post-mistress at the general shop. Mrs Sinail, came forward 
with some testimony. Miss Jessy had been no less than twice to 
the shop during the past lortnight, nay, three times, she thought, 
to inquire after letters addressed J. P. The last time she got one. 
Hud she been negotiating piivately tor the lady’s maid situation, 
wondered Abigail: had she been corresponding with Mr. Marcus 
Allen, retorted Susan, in her ill nature; for she did not just now 
hold Jessy in any favor. Mrs. Smail was asked whetlier she had 
observed, amid the letters dropped into tlie box, any directed to 
Mr. Marcus Allen. But this had to be left an open question: there 
might have been plenty directed to him, or there might not have 
been a single one, was the unsatisfactory answer: she had “ no 
‘ call ’ to examine the directions, and as often diil up the bag with- 
out her spectacles as with ’em.” 

All this, put together, certainly did not tend to show that Mr. 
Marcus Allen had anything to do with the disappearance. Jessy 
liad now and then received letters from her former school-fellows 
addressed to the post-office — for her sisters, who considered her 
but a child, had an inconvenient habit of looking over her shoulder 
while she read them. The whole family, John Drench included, 
were up to their ears in agony: they did not know in what direction 
to look tor her; were just in that state of mind when straws are 
caught at. Tod, knowing it could do no harm, told Miss Abigail 
about the kiss in the coppice. Miss Abigail quite laughed at it; 
kisses under the mistletoe were as common as blackberries with us, 
and just as innocent. She wrote to Aberystwith, asking questions 
about Marcus Allen, especially as tu wffiere he might be found. In 
answer, INlrs. Allen said she had not heard from him since he left 
Aberystwith, early in December, but had no doubt he was in Lon- 
don at his own home; she did not know exactly where that was, 
except that it was “ somewhere at the West End.” 

This letter was no more satisfactory than anything else. It 
seemed all of a piece; all vague and doubtful. Miss Page read it 
to her father when he w\as inched; Susan had just brought up his 
breakfast, and he sat up with the tray before liim, his face nearly 
as white as the pillow behind him. They could not help seeing 
how ill and how shrunken he looked: Jessy’s loss had told upon 
him. 

“ 1 think, father, 1 had better go to London, and see it anything’s 
to be learned there,” said Miss Page. “ We can not live on, in this 
suspense.” 

“ Ay; best go,” answ^ered he, “ 1 can’t live in it, either. I’ve had 
another sleepless night: and 1 wish that 1 was strong to travel. 1 
should have been away long ago searching for the child — ” 

“ You see, father, we don’t know where to seek her; there’s no 
clew,” interrupted Abigail. 


THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 


15 


** I’d have gone from place to place till 1 found her. But now, 
I’ll tell ye, Abigail, where you must go first— the thought has been 
in my mind all night. And that is to Madame Caron s. 

“ To Madame Caron’s I” echoed both the sisters at once. “ Ma- 
dame Caron's!” ^ ^ * n * 

“ Don’t neither of ye remember how your mother used to talk of 
her? Ann Dicker she was. She knows a sight of great folks now 
—and it may be that Jessy’s gone to her. Bond Street, or some- 
where near to it, is where she lives.” 

In truth they had nearly forgotten the person spoken of. Madame 
Caron had once been plain Ann Dicker, of Church Dykely, inti- 
mate with William Page and his wife. She went to London when 
a young woman to learn the millinery and dress-making; tiiarried 
a Frenchman, and rose by degrees to be a fashionable court milliner. 

It struck Mr. Page, during the past night-watch, that Jessy might 
have applied to Madame Caron to help her in getting a place as 

lady’s-maid. . . 

“It’s the likeliest thing she’d do,” he urged, if her mind was 
bent that way. ” How was she to find such a place of herself? — 
and I wish we had all been smothered afore we’d made her home 
here un nappy, and put her on to think of such a thing. . , 

“ Fatner, 1 don’t think her home was made unhappy, said Miss 
Page 

“ ‘ 1 should like to be a lady’s-maid, father, in some great duch- 
ess’s family,’ she says to me one day,” continued the sorrowful 
man- “ and 1 laughed, taking it for nothing but nonsense. ‘ Thee’d 
soon* wish th’self back at home, child,’ was all I said. Ay; she’s 
oif to Madam Caron’s; little doubt on’t; 1 can’t tell how it was i 

never thought of it till to-night.” ,, , i , au- -i 

“1 shouldn’t wonder but what it is so,” slowly spoke Abigail, 
seizing on the probability in her sore perplexity. , 

“ And some of you were for taking away my poor lamb s good 
name!” he added, with emotion. “ She’d no more run away after 
Marcus Allen, or any other Marcus, than you two would r'lu- 
To resolve and to do were one with prompt Abigail Page. JNot a 
moment lost she, now that some sort of clew was afforded to act 
upon. That same morning she was on her way to London, at- 
tended by John Drench. ^ * 

A large handsome double show-room. Brass hooks on the walls 
and slender bonnet-stands on the tables, garnished with gowns and 
mantles and head-gear and fal-lals; wide pier-glasses; sofas and 
chairs covered with chintz. Except for these articles, the room 
-was empty. In a small apartment opening from it, called the try. 
in«--on room,” sat Madame Caron herself, taking a cornfortable 
Clip of tea and a toasted muffin, after the labors of the day were 
ove^r. Not that the labors were great at that season: people who 
require court millinery being mostly out of town. 

“ You are wanted, it you please, madame, in the show- 
said a page in buttons, coming in to disturb the tea. 

“ Wanted! — at this hour!” cried Madame Caron, as she glared 
at the time-piece, and saw it was on the stroke of six. Who 
is it?” 


-room,’ 


16 


THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 


“ It’s a lady and genGeman, madame. They look like travelers.” 

“ Go in and light the gas,” said madame. 

“ Passing through London and are requiring things in a hurry,” 
thought she, mentally running through a list ot some of her most 
fashionable customers. 

She went in with a swimming courtesy— quite that of a French- 
woman— and the parties, visitors and visited, gazBd at each other in 
the gaslight. They saw a very stylish lady in rich black satin that 
stood on end, and lappets of point lace; she saw two homely country 
people, the one in a red comforter, muffled about his ears, the other 
in an antiquated fur tippet that must originally have come out of 
Noah’s ark. 

‘‘Mon Dicu!” inwardly ejaculated madame, who had caught up 
a few of her husband’s native sayings. 

” Is it— Madame Uaron?” questioned Miss Abigail, in hesitation. 
For, you see, she doubted whether it might not be one of Madame 
Caron’s duchesses. 

‘‘ I have the htnor to be Madame Caron,” replied the lady with 
her grandest air. 

Thus put at ease in regard to identity, Miss Page introduced her- 
self — and John Drench, son of Mr. Drench of the Uplaud Farm. 
Madame Caron — who had a good heart, and retained amid her 
grandeur a vivid remembrance ot home and early friends— came 
down from her stilts on the instant, took off with her own hands 
the objectionable tippet, on the plea of heat, conducted them into 
the little room, and rang for a fresh supply ot tea and muffins. 

‘‘ I remember you so well when you were a little thing, Abigail,” 
she said, her heart warming to the old days. ‘‘ We always said you 
would grow up like your mother, and so you have. Ah, dear! 
that’s something like a quarter of a century ago. As to )mu, Mr. 
John, 5mur lather and 1 were boy and girl sweethearts.” 

Over the refreshing lea and the buttered muffins, Abigail Page 
told her tale. The whole of it. Her father had warned her not to 
hint a word against Jessy; but theie was something in the face 
before her that spoke of truth and trust; and, besides, she did not 
see her way clear not to speak of Marcus Allen. To leave him out 
altogether would have been like bargaining for a spring calf in the 
dark, as she said later to John Drench. 

‘‘ 1 have never had a line from Jessy in all my life; 1 have neither 
seen her nor heard of her,” said madame. ‘‘As to Mr. Marcus 
Allen, 1 don’t know him personally myself, but Miss Connaway, 
my liead dress-maker, does; for 1 have heard her speak of him. 1 
can soon find out for you where he lives.” 

Miss Page thought she should like to see the head dress-maker, 
and a message was sent up for her, A neat little middle aged 
woman came down, and was invited to the tea-table. Madame 
turned the conversation on Mr. Marcus Allen; telling Miss Conna- 
way that these country friends of hers knew him slightly, and 
would be glad to get his address to call upon him; but she did not 
say a syllable about Jessy. 

Mr. Marcus Allen had about two hundred a year of his own, and 
was an artist in water colors. The certain income made him idle; 
and he played just as often as he worked. The few pictures he 


THE MYSTERY OE JESSY PAGE. 


17 

completed were ^jood, and sold well. He shared a spacious painting 
room somewhere with a brother artist, but lived in' chambers. All 
this Miss Connaway told readily: she had Known him since he was 
a child. 

Late though it was, Miss Abigail and her cavalier proceeded to 
Marcus Allen’s lodgings; or “chambers,” as thej- were ostenta- 
tiously called, and found him seated at dinner. He rose in the ut- 
most astonishment at sight of them; an astonishment that looked 
thoroughly genuine, 

Jessy missing! Jessy left her home! He could but reiterate the 
words in wondering disbelief. Abigail Page felt reassured from 
that moment; even jealous John Drench in his heart acquitted him. 
He had not ivritten to Jessy, he said; he had nothing to write to 
her about, therefore it could not have been his letter she went to 
receive at the post-oBSce; and most certainly she had not written to 
him. Miss Abigail — willing perhaps to oiler some excuse for com- 
ing to him— said they had thought it possible Jessy might have 
consulted him -about getting a lady’s-maid’s place. She never had 
consulted him, he answered, bat had once told him that she intended 
to go out as one. He should imagine, he added, it was what she had 
done. 

Mr. Marcus Allen pressed them to sit down and partake of his 
dinner, such as it was; he poured out glasses of wine; he was al- 
together hospitable. But they declined all. He then asked how 
he could assist them; he was most anxious they should find her, 
and would help toward it in any way (hat lay in his power. 

“ He knows no more about her than we know,” said John Drench 
as they turned out into the lighted streets, on their way back to the 
inn they had put up at, which had been recommended to them by 
Mr. Page. “I’m sorry 1 misjudged him.” 

“1 am sorry too, John Drench,” was Miss Abigail’s sorrowful 
answer. “But for listening to the wmrOs jmu said, we should 
never have had such a wicked thought about her, poor child, and 
been spared many a bitter moment. \Yhere in the wide world are 
we to look for her now?” 

The wide world did not make sign of answer. London, with its 
teeming millions, was an enormous arena— -and there was no 
especial cause to suppose Jessy Page had come to it, 

“ 1 am afraid it will be of no use to stay here longer,” said Miss 
Abigail to John Drench, after another unsatisfactory day went by, 
during which Marcus Allen called upon them at the inn, and said 
he had spoken to the police. It was John Drench’s own opinion. 

“ Why, you see. Miss Abigail, that to look tor her here, not 
knowing where or how, is like looking for a needle in a bottle of 
hay,” said John. 

They got home none too soon. Two unexpected events were there 
to greet them. The one was Mr. Page who was lying low in an at- 
tacK of paralysis; the other was a letter from Jessy. 

It gave no clew to where she was. All she said in it was that she 
had found a situation, and hoped to suit and be happy in it; and 
she sent her love to all. 

And the weeks and the months went on. 


18 


THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 


PART THE SECOND. 

COMING HOME TO DIE. 

The snow was fullinp:. At one of the windows of the parlor at 
Copse Farm, stood Sasan Paire, hir bunch ol short dark curls fast- 
ened back WMth a comb on both sides of her thin face, her trim 
figure neat in a fine merino gow’n of crimson. Her owm portion 
of household-work was already done, though it was not yet mid- 
day, and she was about to sit down, dressed for the day, to some 
sewing that lay on the work-table near. 

“ 1 was in hopes iLe snow was over: the morning looked so clear 
and bright," she said to herself, w^atching the large flakes. " Leek 
will have a job to get the truck to the church." 

It was a long, narrow room. At the other end, by the fire, sat 
Mr. Page in his arm-chair. He had dropped asleep, his cheek lean- 
ing on his hand. As Miss Susan sat dowm and took up her work, 
a large pair of scissors fell to the ground with a crash. " Hush — 
sh — sh!" said she softly, as if the scissors could hear, and glanced 
round at her lather. He did not wake. That stroke of a year ago 
had dulled his faculties. 

" 1 should uncommonly like to know wdio did this — whether 
Sally or the woman,” she exclaimed, examining the work she had 
to do. rtne of Mr. Page’s new shirts had been torn in the wash- 
ing, and she w'as about to mend the rent. " That wmman has a 
heavy hand; and Sally a careless one. It ought not to have been 
ironed," 

The door opened, and John Drench came in. "When he saw that 
Mr. Page slept, ne walked up the room tow'ard Miss Susan. In the 
pasi twelvemonth — for that length of lime had rolled on since the 
trouble about Jessy and her mysterious disappearance — John Drench 
had had time to return to his first allegiance (or, as Miss Susan 
mentally put it, get over his folly); and he had decidedly done it. 

‘‘ Did jmu want anything?" asked Susan in a cold tone. For 
she made a point of being short with him — for his own benefit. 

" 1 wanted to ask the master whether he’d have that ditch made, 
that he was talking of," was the answer. " There’s no hurry: not 
much to be done anywhere while this weather lasts.” 

She made no comment. John Drench stood, waiting for Mr. 
Page to wake, looking alternately at the snow and at Miss Susan’s 
steel thimble and nimble fingers. Very deftly was she doing the 
work, holding the linen gingerly, that the w’^ell-ironed bosom and 
W'list bands might not get a crease and unfit the shirt for wear. He 
was thinking what a good wife she wmuld make: for there was 
nothing, in the shape of usefulness, that Susan Page could not put 
her hand to, and pul it well. 

" Miss Susan, 1 was going to ask a queslion of you,” he began, 
standing uncomfortably on one leg. ‘‘ l‘ve been wanting to do it 
for this good bit now, but — " 


THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 19 

“ Pick up ruy cotton,” said Miss Susan tartly, dropping a reel on 
purpose. 

“ But 1 b’lieve 1 have wanted courage,” resumed he atter doing 
as he was hid. ‘‘It is a puzzling task how to do it lor the best, 
and what to say. If; you—” 

Open flew the door, and in came Miss Page, in her lliick white 
kitchen apron. Her gown-sleeves were rolled above her elbows, 
her floured hands were lightly wiped, .lohn Drench, struck into 
himself, thought he should never have pluck to speak again 

‘‘ Susan, do you know where that old red leceipt hook is?” she 
asked, in a low tone, glancing at her sleeping lather. ‘‘ 1 am not 
certain about the proportions for the lemon-cake.” 

‘‘ Ihe red receipt-book?” repeated Susan. ‘‘ I have net seen it 
for ever so long.” 

‘‘ Nor 1. 1 don’t think 1 have had occasion to use it since last 

Christmas Eve. 1 know 1 had to iDok at it then for the lemon-cake. 
Sails' says she’s sure it is somewhere in this room.” 

“ Then you had better send Sally to find it, Abigail.” 

Instead of that, Miss Page began looking herself. On the book- 
shelves; on the sideboard; in all the nooks arid corner's. It was 
found in the empty drawer— empty except for that — of an unused 
table that stood against the wall. 

‘‘ Well, 1 declare!” she exclaimed, as she drew it out. ‘‘ 1 won- 
der who put it in here?” 

In turning over the leaves to look for what she wanted, a piece 
of paper, loosely folded, fell to the ground. John Drench picked it 
up 

‘‘ Why!” he said, ” it is a note from Jessy.” 

It was the letter written to them by Jessy, saying she had found 
a situation and hoped to suit and be happy in it. The letter : 
for no other had ever come. Abigail, missing the letter months ago, 
supposed it had got burned. 

‘‘ Yes,” she said with a sigh, as she glanced over the few lines 
now, standing by Susan’s work-table, ‘‘it is Jessy’s letter. She 
might have W’ritten again. Every morning of my life lor weeks 
and weeks, 1 kept looking for the letter-man to bring another. But 
the hope died out at last, for it never came.” 

‘‘ She is a heartless baggage!” cried Miss Susan. ‘‘ In her grand 
lady’s-maid’s place, amid her high people, she is content to forget 
and abandon us. I’d never have believed it of her.” 

There ensued a pause. The subject was a painful one. Mortify- 
ing too: for nobody likes to be set at naught and forgotten by one 
that they have loved and cherished and brought up from a little 
child. Abigail Page had tears in her eyes. 

‘‘ It’s just a year ago to-day that she came into the church to help 
u*? dress it,” said John Drench, his tender tone of regret grating on 
Miss Susan’s ear. ‘‘In her blue mantle: looking sweeter and 
brighter than a fairy princess.” 

‘‘ Did you ever see a fairy. princess, pray?” asked Miss Susan, 
sharply taking him up. ‘‘ Siie acted like a princess, didn’t she?” 

‘‘ Be«t to foiget her,” interposed Abigail, suppressing a sigh. 
‘‘ As Susan says, she is heartless. Almost w'icked: for what is 
worse than ingratitude? Never to write; never to let us know 


‘20 


THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 


where her situation is and witli wliat people: never to ask or care 
whether her poor father, who had nothing but love for her, is liv- 
ing or dead? It’s best to forget her." 

She went out of the room with the note and receipt-book as she 
spoke, softl.y closing the door behind her, as one does who is feeling 
troubled. Miss Susan worked on with rapid and angry stitches; 
John Drench looked out on the low-lying snow. The storm had 
passed: the sky was blue again. 

Yes. Christmas Eve had come round, making it just a year 
since Jessy in her pretty blue mantle had chosen the sprays ot 
holl 5 Mn the church. They bad never had from her but that one 
first unsatistactory letter: they knew no more how she went, or 
why she went, or where she was, than they had known then. Ko 
news whatever came of her: she was as a myth; as a thing that 
had never had any place in the world. Within a week or two of 
the unsatisfactory journey to London of Miss Abigail and John 
Drench, a letter came to the farm from Mr. Marcus Allen, inquir- 
ing after Jessy, expressing hopes that she had been found and was 
at home again. It was not answered; Miss Page, busy with her 
father’s illness, neglected it at first, and then thought it did not 
matter. 

J\Ir Page had recovered from his stroke; but he would never be 
good foi anything again, lie was very much changed; would sit 
for houis and never speak: at times his daughters thought him a 
liitle silly, as it his intellect were tailing. IMiss Page, with John 
Drench’s lielp, managed the farm: though she alwa 5 '^s made it a 
point of duty to consult her father and ask tor his orders. In the 
month of June they heard again from Mr. Marcus Allen. lie wrote 
to say that he was sorry not to fulfill his promise (made in the 
winter’s visi!) of coming to stay with them during the lime of hay- 
making, but he was busy finisliing a painting and could not leave 
it; he hoped to come at some other time. And this was now De- 
cember. 

Susan Page worked on: John Drench looked from the window. 
The young lady was determined not to break the silence. 

‘‘ The Dunn Farm is to let,’’ said he suddenly. 

‘‘ Is it?’’ slightingly returned Miss Susan, 

“ My father has some thoughts of taking it for me. It’s good 
land.’’ 

“ ISo better than other land about here.’’ 

" It’s very good, Susan. And just the place 1 should like. There’s 
a nice convenient house too, on it.’’ 

Susan Page began rummaging in the deep draw^er of the work- 
table tor her box of buttons. She had a great mind to hum a tune. 

‘‘But 1 couldn’t take it. or let father take it for me, unless 
you’d promise to go to it with me, Susan.’’ 

‘‘ Promise to go to it with you, John Drench!’’ 

‘‘ I’d make you as good a husband as 1 know how. Perhans 
you’ll think of it.’’ 

No answer. She was doubling her thread to sew on the button. 

“ Will you think ot it, Miss Susan?’’ 

Well- yes, X will,’’ she said in a softer tone. “ And if 1 decide 


THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 21 

to bling my mind to have you, John Drench, I'll hope to make 
you a good and laithful wife.” 

lie held out his hand to shake hers upon the bargain. Their eyes 
met in kindliness; and John Drench kne tv that the Dunn Farm 
would have its mistress. 

We were going to dress the church this year as we did the last. 
Clerk Bumford’s cough was bad to hear, and the old sexton was 
laid l)y as usual. Tod and 1 got to the church early in the after- 
noon, and saw the Miss Pages wading their way through the cop- 
pice, over their ankles in snow; the one lady having finished her 
cake-making and the other her shiit-mendiug. 

” Is Leek not here yeti” cried they in surprise. ” We need not 
have made so much haste.” 

Leek wiih his large truck of holly was somewhere on the road. 
He had started, as Miss Page said, while they were at dinner. And 
he was not to be seen ! 

” It is all through his obstinacy,” cried Susan. ” 1 told him he 
had better lake the highway, though it was a bit further round; 
but he said he knew he could get well through the little valley. 
That’s where he has stuck, truck and all.” 

John Drench came up as she was speaking. He had been on 
some errand to Church Dykeiy; and gave a bad account ot the 
snow on the roads. This was the third day of it. The skies just 
now were blue as in spring; the sun, drawing toward the west, was 
without a cloud. After waiting a few minutes, John Drench started 
to meet Leek and help him on; and we cooled our heels in the 
cliurch-porch, unable to get inside. As it was supposed Leek 
would be there sooner than anybody else, the key of the church had 
been given to him that he might get the holly in. There waited 
in the cold. At last, out of patience. Tod went off in John Drench’s 
wake, and 1 after him. 

It was as Miss Susan surmised. Leek and his truck had stuck 
in the valley: alow, narrow neck of land connecting a by-way to 
the farm with the lane. The snow was above the wheels: Leek 
could neither get on nor turn back. He and John Drench were 
hard at work, pulling and pushing; and the obstinate truck refus- 
ing to move an inch. With the help of our strength— if mine was 
not worth much, Tod’s was—v/e got it on. But all this caused 
ever so much delay: and the dressing was begun when it ought to 
have been nearing its ending. 1 could not help thinking of the 
other Christmas Eve; and of pretty Jessy who had helped— and of 
Miss Busan’s blowing her up tor coming in her best blue mantle— 
and ot the sudden looming in upon us ot the stranger, Marcus 
Allen. Perhaps the rest were thinking: about it as 1 was. One thing 
was certain— thal there was no liveliness in this year’s dressing; 
we were all as silent and dull as ditch-water. Charley Page, who 
had made enough noise last year, w^as awuiy this. He went to school 
at Worcester now, and had gone to spend the Christmas with some 
people in Gloucestershire, instead ot coming home. 

The work was in progress, when who should look in upon us 
but Duffham. He was passing by to visit somebody ill in the cot- 
tages. ” Bather late, sha’n’t you be?” cried he, seeing that there 


THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 


22 

was hardly any green up yet. Ard we told him about the truck 
sticking in the snow. 

“ What possessed Leek to take it through the valley?’’ returned 
Duff ham. 

“ Because he is fonder of having his ov\^n way than any mule,” 
called out Miss Susan trom the aisle. 

Duffham laughed. “Don’t forget the gala bunch over the par- 
son’s head; it looked well last year,” said he, turning to go out. 
And we told him tliere was no danger ot forgetting it; it was one 
of our improvements on old Bumford’s diessing. 

The dark overtook us before half the work was done. There 
was nothing for it but to get candles from tlie Copse Farm to finish 
by. Nobody volunteered to fetch them: a walk through the suow 
did not look lively in prospective to any one of us, and Leek had 
gone off somewhere “ 1 suppose it must be me,” said John Drench, 
coming out from amidst the holly to start: wdien Miss Page sud- 
denly bethought herself of what the rest ot us were lorgetting — 
that there might be candles in the church. On a winter’s afternoon, 
when it grew dark early and the parson could not see through his 
spectacles to finish his sermon, Clerk Bnmford wbuld go stumping 
into the place under the belfry, and reappear with a lighted caudle 
and hand it up to the pulpit. He ought to have a stock ot candles 
in store. 

John Drench struck some matches, and we went to explore Bum- 
ford’s den — a place dimly lighted bj^ the open slits iu the belfry 
above. The first thing seen was his black gown hanging up, next 
a horn lantern on the floor and the grave-diggmg tools, then an iron 
candlestick tvith an end of candle in it, then a stick half a mile long 
that he menaced the boys with if they laughed iu church; and next 
a round tin candle- box on a nail in the wall. It was a prize. 

There were ten candles in it. Ten! Leaving one in case it should 
be wanted on the morrow afternoon, the nine others were set alight. 
One was put into the iron candlestick, the rest we stuck upright in 
dropped dabs of tallow, wherever one w'as wanted: how else could 
they be set up? . It was a grand illumination: and we laughed 
over Clerk Bumford's dismay wheahe should find his store of can- 
dles gone. 

I/iat took time: finding the candles, and dropping the grease, 
and talking and laughing. In the midst ot it the clock struck five. 
Upon that. Miss Abigail told us to hinder no more time, or the 
work would not be done by midnight. So we set to with a will. 
In a couple of hours all the dressing was finished, and the branches 
were ready to be hung over the pulpit. John Drench felt tor the 
string, lie seemed to take his time over it. 

“ VVhere on earth is it?” cried he, searching his pockets. “ I’m 
sure 1 brought some.” 

He might have brought it; but it was certain he had not got it 
then. Miss Abigail, wlm had no patience with carelessness, told 
him rather sharply that if he had put it in his pockets at all, there 
it would be now. 

“ Well, 1 did,” he answered, iu his quiet way. “ 1 put it in on 
purpose. I’m sure 1 don’t know where it can have got to,” 

And there we were: at a slaudstil) for a bit of string. Looking 


THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 


23 


at one another like so many helpless noodles, and the flaring can- 
dles nearly come to an end! Tod said, tear a slrip off the tail ot 
Bumtord’s gown; he’d never miss it; for which Miss Abigail gave 
it him as sharply as it he had proposed to tear it off the parson’s. 

1 might get a bit of string at old Bumford’s,” 1 said. “ In a 
few minutes I’ll be back witiril.” 

It was one ot the lightest nights ever seen: the air clear, the 
moon bright, the ground white with snow. Rushing round the 
north and unfrequented side of the church, where the grass on the 
graves was long and nobody ever walked, save old Bumford when 
he wanted to cut across the near way to his cottage, 1 saw some- 
thing stirring against the church wall. {Something dark: that 
seemed to have been looking in at the window, and now crouched 
down with a sudden movenient in the corner made by the buttress, 
as if afraid of being seen. 

“ Is that you, LeekV” 1 called out. 

There was no answer: no movement: nothing but a dark heap 
lying low. 1 thought it might be a fox: and crossed over to look. 

Well — 1 had had surprises in my life, but never one that so 
struck upon me as this. Foxes don’t w'ear women’s clothes: this 
thing did. 1 pulled aside the dark covering cloak, and a face stood 
out white and cold in the moonlight— the face ot Jessy Page. 

You may fancy it is a slice of romance this: made up tor effect 
out of my imagination; but it is the real truth, as everybody about 
the place can testify to, and its strangeness is talked of still. Yet 
there are stranger coincidences in life than this. On Christmas Eve, 
a year before, Jessy Page had been helping to dress the church, in 
her fine blue mantle, in her beauty, in her light-hearted happiness: 
on this Christmas Eve when we were dressing it again, she re- 
appeared. But how changed! Wan, white, faint, thin! 1 am not 
sure that 1 should have known her but tor her voice. Shrinking, 
as it struck me, with shame and fear, she put up her trembling 
hands in supplication. 

“ Don’tbetray me!— don’t call out!” she implored in weak, fever- 
ish, anxious tones. ‘‘ Go away and leave me. Let me lie here un- 
suspected until they have all gone away.” 

What ought 1 to do? 1 was just as bewildered as it’s possible for 
a fellow to be. It’s no exaggeration to say that 1 thought her dying: 
and it would never do to leave her there to die. 

The stillness was broken by a commotion. While she lay with 
her thin hands raised, and 1 was -gazing down on her poor face, 
wondering what to say, and how to act. Miss Susan came flying 
round the corner aftei me. 

“Johnny Ludlow! Master Joimny! Don't go. There’s no 
need. "We have found the string under the unused holly. Why!— 
what’s that?” 

No chance of concealment for Jessy now. Susan Page made for 
the buttress, and saw the white face lying in the moonlight,. 

“It’s Jessy,” 1 whispered. 

With a shriek that might have scared away all the ghosts in the 
church-yard, Susan Page called out for Abigail. They heard it 
through the window, and came rushing out, thinking Susan must 


24 : 


THE MYSTEKY OF JESSY PAGE. 


have fallen at least into the fangs of a winter wolf. Miss Susan’s 
voice shook as she spoke; spoke in a whisper. 

“ Here’s Jessy^ — come back at last!” 

Disbelieving Abigail Page went clown on her knees in the snow to 
trace the features, and convince herself. Yes, it w^as Jessy. She 
had fainted now, and lay motionless. Leek came up then, and 
stood staling. 

Where had she come from? — how had she got there? It was just 
as though she had dropped from the skies with the snow. And 
what was to be rlone with her? 

‘‘ She must— come home,” said Abigail. 

But she spoke hesitatingly, as though some impediments might 
lie in the way: and she looked round in a dreamy manner on the 
open country, all so white and dreary in the moonlight. 

‘‘ Y’es, there's no other place — of course it must be the farm,” she 
added. ” Perhaps you can bring her between you. But I’ll go on 
and speak to my father first.” 

It was easy for one to carry her, she was so thin and light. John 
Drench lifted her and they all went oft: leaving me and Leek to 
finish up in the church, and put out the guttering caudles. 

William Page was sitting in his favorite place, the wide chimney- 
corner of the kitchen, quietly smoking his pipe, when his daughter 
broke in upon him with the strange news. Just in the same w’ay 
that, a year before, she had broken in upon him with that other 
news — that a gentleman had arrived, uninvited, on a visit to (he 
farm. This new^s was more startling than that. 

” Are they bringing her home?— how long will they be?” cried 
the old man wdlh feverish eagerness, as he let tall his long church- 
warden pipe, and broke it. ” Abigail, will they be long?” 

” Father, 1 want to say something: 1 came on to say ft,” re- 
turned Miss Page, and she was trembling too. “ I don’t like her 
face; it is wan, and thin, and full of suftering: but there’s a look 
in it that — that seems to tell of shame,” 

‘‘To tell of what?” he asked, not catching the word. 

“May heaven forgive me it 1 misjudge her! The fear crossed 
me, as 1 saw her lying there, that her life may not have been 
innocent since she left us: why else should she comeback in this 
most strange way? Must we take her in all the same, father?” 

‘‘ Take her in!” he repeated in amazement. ” Y'es. What 
are yon thinking of, child, to ask it?” 

‘‘it’s the home of me and Susan, father: it has been alw’ays 
an honest one in the sight of the neighbors. Max’" be they’ll be 
hard upon us for receiving: her into it.” 

He stared as one who does not understand, and then made a 
movement with his hands, as if warding oft her words and the 
neighbors’ hardness together. 

‘‘Let her come, Abigail! Let her come, poor stray lamb. 
Christ wouldn’t turn away a little one that had strayed from the 
fold; should her own father do it?” 

And w'lieu they biought her in, and put her in an easy-chair by 
the sitting-room fire, stirring it into a hot blaze, and gave her hot 
tea and brandy in it, William Page sat down by her side, and 
,shed fast tears over her, as he fondly stroked her head. 


THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE 


25 


Gay and green looked the cliiircli on Christmas morning, the sun 
shining in upon us as brightly as it shone a year betore. The 
news of Jessy Page’s return and the curious manner of it, had 
spread, causing the congregation to turn their eyes in natural in- 
stinct or the Pages’ pew. Perhaps not one but recalled the last 
Christmas— and the gallant stranger w^ho had sat in it, and found 
the places in the prayer-book for Jessy. Only Mr. Page was there to- 
day. He came slowly in with his thick stick— tor he walked badly 
since his illness, and dragged one leg behind the other Before 
the thanksgiving prayer the parson opened a paper and read out a 
notice. Such things were uncommon'in our church, and it caused 
a stir. 

“ William Page desires to return thanks to Almighty God for 
a great mercy vouchsafed to him,” 

We walked to the Copse Farm with him after service. Con- 
sidering that he had been returnins: thanks, he seemed dreadfully 
subdued. He didn’t know how it was yet; where she had been, or 
why she had come home in the manner she did, he told the squire; 
but, anyway, she had come. Come to die, it might be, but come 
home, and that was enough. 

Mrs. Todhetley went upstairs to see her. They had given her 
the best bed, the one they had put Marcus Allen in. Sl.e lay in 
it like a lily. It was what Mrs. Todhetley said when she came 
down: ‘‘like a lily, so white and d'dicate.” There was no talk- 
ing, Jessy mostly kept her eyes shut and her face turned away. 
Miss Page whispered that they had not questioned her yet: she 
seemed too weak to bear it. “But what do you think?''' asked 
Mrs. Todhetley in return. “1 am afraid to think,” w’as all the 
answer. In coming away, Mrs. Todhetley stooped over the bed 
to kiss her. 

“Oh, don’t, don’t!” said Jessy faintly: “you might not if j'ou 
knew all. 1 am not worth it.” 

“Perhaps 1 should kiss you all the more, my poor child,’' an- 
swered Mrs, Todhetley. And she came down-stairs with redeyes. 

But Miss Susan Page was burning wdth impatience to know the 
ins and outs of the strange affair. Naturally so. It had biouglit 
more scandal and gossip on the Copse Farm than even the running 
away of the year before. That was bad enough: this was worse. 
Altogether Jessy was the home’s heartsore. Mr. Page spoke of 
her as a lamb, a wanderer returned to the fold, and Susan heard it 
with compressed lips: in her private opinion, she had more justly 
been called an ungrateful girl. 

“Now then, Jessy, you must let us know a little about your- 
self,” began Susan on this same afternoon when she was with 
her alone, and Jessy lay apparently stronger, refreshed with the 
dinner and the long rest. Abigail had gone to church with ]\Ir. 
Page. Susan could not remember that any of tliein had gone to 
church before on Christmas Day after the morning service: but 
there was no festive gathering to keep them at home to-day. Un- 
consciously, perhaps, Susan resented the fact. Even John Drench 
was dining at his father’s. “ Where have you been all this while 
in London?” 


26 THE MYSTEKY OF JESSY PAGE. 

Jessy suddenly lifted lier arm to shade ner eyes, and remained 
silent. 

“ It IS in London, 1 conclude, that you have been? Come: 
answer me.” 

“ ^es,” said Jessy faintly. 

” And where have you been? In what part of it? — who with?” 

“Don’t ask me, ’’“was the reply, given with a sob of pain. 

“ Not ask you! Jiut we must ask you. And you must answer. 
"Where have you been, and what have you been doing?” 

“ I— can’t tell,” sobbed Jessy, catching up her breath. “ The 
story is too long.” 

“ Siory too long!” echoed Susan quickly, “ you might say in half 
a dozen words — and leave close explanation until to-morrow. Did 
you find a place in town?” 

“ Yes, 1 found a place.” 

“ A lady’s-maid’s place? — as you said.” 

Jessy turned her face to the wall, and never spoke. 

“Now, this won’t do,” cried Miss Susan, not choosing to be 
thwarted: and no doubt Jessy, hearing the determined tone, felt 
something liUe a reed in her hands. “Just you tell me a little.” 

“1 am very ill, Susan; 1 can’t talk much,” was the pleading 
excuse. “ It you’d only let me be quiet.” 

“ It will no more hurt you to say in a few w^ords where you 
have been than to make excuses that you can’t say,” persisted Miss 
Silvan, giving a flick to the skirt of her new puce silk gown. 
“ Your conduct altogether has been most extraordinary, quite 
baffling to us at home, and I must hear some explanation of it.” 

“ The place 1 went to was too hard for me,” said Jessy after a 
pause, speaking out of the pillow. 

“ Too hard!” 

“ Yes; too hard. My heart was breaking wuth its hardness, and 
1 couldn’t stop in it. Oh, be merciful to me, Susan! don’t ask 
more.” 

Susan Page thought that when the mysterious answers like these 
were creeping out, there was all the greater need that she should 
ask more. 

“ Who found you the place at first, Jessy?” 

Not a wmrd. Susan asked again. 

“1 — got it through an advertisement,” said Jessy at length. 

Advertisements in those days, down in our rural district, were 
looked upon as wonderful things, and Miss Susan opened her eyes 
in surprise. A faint idea pervaded her that Jessy could not be 
telling the truth. 

“ In that letter that vou wrote to us, the only one you did write, 
you asserted that you liked the place.” 

“ Yes. That was at first. But afterward— oh, afterward it got 
cruelly hard.” 

“ Why did you not change it for another?” 

Jessy made no answer. Susan heard the sobs in her throat. 

“ Now, Jessy, don’t be silly. I ask why did you not get another 
place, it you were unable to stay in that one?” 

“ 1 couldn’t have got another, Susan. 1 would never have got 
another.” 


THE MYSTEEY OE JESSY PAGE. 


27 


“ Why not?” persisted Susan. 

" 1 — 1— don’t you see how weak I am?” she asked with some en- 
ergy, showing her face tor a moment to Susan. 

And its wan pain, its depth of anguish, disarmed Susan. Jessy 
looked like a once fair blossom on which a blight had passed. 

“ Well, Jessy, we will leave these matters until later. But 
there’s one thing you must answer. Whut induced you to take 
this disreputable mode ot coming back?” 

A dead silence. 

“Could you not have written to say you were coming, as any 
sensible girl would, that you might have been properly met and re- 
ceived? Instead ol appearing like a vagabond, to be picked up by 
anybody.” 

“ I never meant to come home— to the house.” 

“ But why V asked Susan. 

“ Oh, because— because for my ingratitude in running away— and 
never writing — and — and all that.” 

“ That is, you were ashamed to come and face us.” 

“Yes, 1 was ashamed,” said Jessy, shivering. 

“ And no wonder. VVhy did you go?” 

Jessy gave a despairing sigh. Leaving that question in abeyance, 
Susan returned to the former one. 

“ If you did not mean to come home, what brought you dowm 
here at all?” 

“ It didn’t matter wdiere I went. And my heart was yearning 
for a Inok at the old place— and so 1 came.” 

“ And it we had not found you under the church w'all— and we 
never should but for Johnny “Ludlow’s running out to get some 
string— where should you have gone, pray?” 

“ Crawled under some haystack, and let the cold and hunger kill 
me.” 

“ Don’t be a simpleton,” reproved Susan. 

“ 1 wish it had been so,” returned Jessy. “ I’d rather be dying 
there in quiet. Oh, Susan, 1 am ill; 1 am indeed! Let me be at 
peace!” 

The appeal shut up Susan Page. She did not want to be too 

^^Mr. Duftham came in after, church. Abigail had told him that 
she did not like Jessy’s looks; nor yet her cough. He went up 
alone, and was at the bedside before Jessy was aware. She put up 
her hand to hide her face, but not in lime: Duftham had seen it. 
Doctors don’t get shocks in a general way: they are too familiar 
with appearances that frighten oilier people; but he started a little. 
It ever he saw coming death in a face, he ihought he saw it in that 
ol Jessy Page. 

lie drew away the shading hand, and looked at her. Dulvliam 
was pompous on the whole and thought a good deal of his gold- 
headed cane, but he was a tender man with the sad and sick. A fter 
that he sal down and began asking her a few things— where she 
had been, and what she had done. Not out of curiosity, or quite 
with the same motive that Miss Susan had just asked; but because 
he wished to find out wheiher her illness was more on the body or 
the mind, She would not answer. Only cried softly. 


28 


THE MYSTEEY OF JESSY PAGE. 


“ My dear,” said Duffham, “ 1 must have you tell me a little of 
the past. Don’t be alraid: it shall go no further. If you only 
knew the strange confidences that are sometimes placed in me, 
Jessy, you would not hesitate.” 

No, she would not speak of her own accord, so he began to pump 
her. Doing it very kindly and soothingly: had Jessy spent her year 
in London "robbing all the banks, one might have thought she could 
only have yielded to his wish to come to the bottom of it. Du3- 
hain listened to her answers, and sat with a puzzled face. She told 
him what she had told Susan: that her post of lady’s-maid had 
been too hard for her and worn her to what she was; that she had 
shrunk from returning home on account of her ingratitude, and 
should not have returned ever of her own will. But she had 
yearned for a sight of the old place, and so came down by rail, and 
walked over after dark. In passing the church she saw it lighted 
up; and lingered, peeping in. She never meant to be seen; she 
should have gone away somewhere before morning. Nothing more. 

Nothing more! DufFham sat listening to her. He pushed back 
the pretty golden hair (no more blue ribbons in it now), lost in 
thought. 

” Nothing more, Jessy? There must have been something more, 

I think, to have brought you into this state. What w^as it?” 

” No,” she faintl}’’ said; ‘‘ only the hard work I had to do; and 
the thought of how 1 left my home; and — and my unhappiness. 1 
was unhappy always, nearly from my first entering. The work 
w^ashard.” 

” What was the work?” 

” It wms-” 

A long pause. Mr. Dulfham, always looking at her, waited. 

‘‘It was sewing; dress-making. And— there was sitting up at 
nights.” 

“ Who was the lady you served? AYhat was her name?” 

‘‘ 1 can’t tell it,” answered Jessy, hei cheeks flushing to a wild 
hectic. 

The surgeon suddenly turned the left hand toward him, and 
looked at the forefinger. It was smooth as ivory. 

‘‘ Not much sign of sewing there, Jessy.” 

She drew it under the clothes. ‘‘ It is some little time since 1 
did any; 1 was too sick,” she answered. ‘‘Mr. Duffham, 1 have 
told you all there is to tell. The place was too hard for me, and it 
made me ill.” 

It was all she told. Duffham wondered whether it was, in sub- 
stance, all she had to tell. He went down and entered the parlor 
with a grave face; Mr. Page, his daughters, and John Drench were 
there. The doctor said Jessy must have perfect rest, tranqtiillity, 
and the best of nourishment; and he would send some medicine! 
Abigail put a shawl over her head, and walked with him across the 
garden. 

‘‘ You will tell me what your opinion is, Mr. Duffham.” 

“ Ay. It is no good one. Miss Abigail.” 

” Is she very ill 

‘‘ Very. In so far as that 1 do not think she will materially rally. 
Her chest and lungs are both weak,” ^ 


THE MYSTERY OE JESSY PAGE. 29 

“ Her mother’s were before her. As 1 told you, Jessy looks to 
me just as my mother used to look iu her last illness.” 

Mr. Duftliam went through the gate without saying more. The 
snow was sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight. 

“1 think 1 gather what you mean,” resumed Abigail. “That 
she is, in point of tact, dyins:.” 

‘‘ That’s it. As 1 truly believe.” 

They looked at each other in the clear light air. “ But not— 
surely, Mr. Duffham, not immediately?” 

” Not immediately. It may be weeks off yet. Mind— 1 don’t 
assert tnat she is absolutely past hope; 1 only think it. It is pos- 
sible that she may rally, and recover.” 

“ It might not be the happier lor her,” said Abigail, under her 
breath. “ She is in a curiously miserable state of mind— as you no 
doubt saw. Mr. Duftham, did she tell you anything?” 

“ She says she took a place as lady’s-maid; that the work proved 
too hard for her; and that, with the remorse for her ingratitude to- 
ward her home, made her ill.” 

“ She said the same to Susan this afternoon. Well, we must wait 
for more. Good night, Mr. Duflham: 1 am sure you will do all 
you can.” 

Ot course Duftham meant, to do all he could; and from that time 
he began to attend her regularly. 

Jessy Page’s coming home, with, as Miss Susan had put it, the 
vagabond manner of it, was a nine days’ wonder. The neighbors 
went making calls at the Copse Farm, to talk about it and to see 
her. In the latter hope they tailed. Jessy showed a great fear of 
seeing any one of them; would put her head under the bed-clothes 
and lie there shaking till the house was clear; and Diiffharn said she 
was not to be crossed. 

Her sisters got to know no more of the past. Not a syllable. 
They questioned and cross- questioned her; but she only stuck to 
her text. It was the work that had been too much lor her; the 
people she served were cruelly hard. 

“ 1 really think it must be so; that she has nothing else to tell,” 
remarked Abigail to Susan one morning, as they sat alone at break- 
last. “ But she must have been a downright simpleton to stay.” 

“ 1 can’t make her out,” returned Susan, hard of belief. “ Why 
should she not say where it was, and who the people are? Here 
comes the letter-man.” 

The letter-man— as he was called— was bringing a letter for Miss 
Page. Letters at the Copse Farm were rare, and she opened it with 
curiosity. It proved to be from Mrs. Allen of Aberystwith; and 
out of it dropped two cards, tied together with silver cord. 

Mrs. Allen wrote lo say that her distant relative, Marcus, was 
married. He had been m‘arried on Christmas Eve to a Miss Mary 
Goldbeater, a rich heiress, and they had sent her cards. Thinking 
the Miss Pages might like to see the cards (as they knew something 
of him) she had forwarded them. 

Abigail took the cards up. “Mr. ]\lnrcus Allen. Mrs. Marcus 
Allen.^” And on hers was the address ; “ Gypsy Villas, Montgomery 
Road, Brompton.” “ 1 think he miLdit have been polite enough to 
send us cards also,” observed Abigail, 


THE MYSTERY OE JESSY PAGE. 


30 

Susan put the cards on the waiter when she went upstairs with 
her sister’s tea. Jessy, looking rather more feverish tlian usual in 
a morning, turned the cards about in her slender hands. 

“ 1 have heard ot her, this Mary Goldbeater,” said Jessy, biting 
her parched lips. ” They say she’s pretty, and — and very rich.” 

‘‘ Where did you hear of hei ?” asked Susan. 

” Oh, in — let me think. In the work-room.” 

“Now what do you mean by tbatV” cried Miss Sutan, catching 
at the words. “ A. work room implies a dress maker’s establish'' 
ment, and you tell us you were a lady’s-maid.” 

Jessy seemed unable to answer. 

“ 1 don’t believe you w^ere at either the one place or the other. 
You are deceiving us. Jessy.” 

“ No,” gasped Jessy. 

“ Did you ever see Mr. Marcus Allen when you were in town?” 

“ Mr. Marcus Allen?” rep(ated Jessy after a pause, just as if she 
were unable to recall who ^Ir. Mai’cus Allen was. 

“ The Mr. Marcus Allen you knew at Aberystwith; he wdio came 
here afterw^ard,” went on Susan impatiently. “Are you losing 
your memory, Jessy?” 

“No, 1 neyer saw the Marcus Allen 1 knew here — and there,” 
was Jessy’s answer, her face wdiite and still as death. 

“AYhy! Did you know any other Marcus Allen, then?” ques- 
tioned Susan, in surprise. Dor the words had seemed to imply it. 

“ No,” replied Jessy. “No.” 

“ She seems queerer than usual — 1 hope her mind’s not going,” 
thought Susan. “ Did you eyer go to see Madame Caron, Jessy, 
while 5'ou were in London?” 

“Neyer. Why should 1? 1 didn’t know Madame Caron. ” 

“ When Marcus Allen wrote to excuse himself from visiting us in 
the summer, he said he would be sure to come later,” resumed 
Susan. “1 wonder if he will keep his promise.’' 

“ No— never,” answered Jessy. 

“ How do you know?” 

“ Oh— 1 don’t think it. He’d not care to come. Especially now 
he’s married.” 

“ And you never saw him in town, Jessy? Never even met him 
by chance?” 

“ I’ve told you— N o. Do you suppose I should be likely to call 
upon Marcus Allen? As to meeting him by chance, it is not often 
1 went out, 1 can tell you.” 

“ Well, sit up and lake your breakfast,” concluded Susan. 

A thought had crossed Susan Page’s mind— wiiether this mar- 
riage of Marcus Allen’s on Chrislmas Eve could have had anything 
to do with Jessy’s return and her miserable unhappiness, ‘it was 
only a thought; and she drove it away again. As Abigail said, she 
had been inclined throughout to judge hardly of Jessy. 

* * * * * * * 

The winter snow lay on the ground still, when it became a ques- 

tion not of how many wneks Jessy would live, but of days. And 
then she confessed to a secret that pretty nearly changed the sober 
Miss Pages’ hair from black to gray. ‘Jessy had turned Roman 
Catholic. 


THE MYSTERY OE JESSY PAGE. 


SI 


It came out tbroiigli her persistent refusal to see the parson, Mr. 
Holland, a little man with shaky legs. He’d go trotting up to the 
Copse Farm once or twice a week; all in vain. Miss Abigail would 
console him with a good hot jorum of sweet elder wine, and then 
he’d trot back again. One day Jessy, brought to bay, confessed 
that she was a Roman Catholic. 

There was a grand commotion. John Drench went about, his 
hands lifted in the trosty air; Abigail and Susan Page sat in the 
bedroom with (metaphorically speaking) ashes on their heads. 

People have their prejudices. It was not so much that these 
ladies wished to cast reflection on good Catholics bom and bied, as 
that Jessy should have abandoned her own religion, just as though 
it had been an inadequate faith. It was the slight on it that they 
could not bear. 

“ Miserable girl!” exclaimed Miss Susan, looking upon Jessy as 
a turncoat, and therefore next door to lost. And Jessy told, through 
her sobs, how it had come to pass. 

Wandering about one evening in London when she was very un- 
happy, she entered a Catholic place of worship styled an ” Oratory.” 
The Miss Pages caught up tlie word as “oratorio,” and never 
called it anything else. There a priest got into conversation with 
Jessy. He had a pleasant. Kind manner that won upon her and 
drew from her the fact that she was unhappy. Become a Catho- 
lic, he said to her; it would bring back her happiness: and he asked 
her to go and see him again. »he went again; again and again. 
And so, going and listening to him, she at length did turn, and was 
received by him into his Church. 

“ Are you the happier for it?” sharply asked Miss Abigail. 

“ No,” answered Jessy with distressed eyes. “ Only— only — ” 

“ Only what, pray?” 

“ Well, they can absolve me from all sin.” 

“ Oh, you poor foolish misguided child!” cried Abigail in 
anguish; “ you must take your sins to the Saviour: He can absolve 
you, and He alone. Do you want any third person to stand be- 
tween you and Him?” 

Jessy gave a sobbing sigh. “ It’s best as it is, Abigail. Any- 
way, it is too late now.” 

“ Slop a bit,” cried sharp Miss Susan. “ 1 should like to have 
one thing answered. Jessy. Tou have told us how hard you were 
kept to work: if that was so, pray how did you get leisure to be 
dancing abroad to oratoiios? Come?” 

Jessy could not, or would not, answer. 

“ Can you explain that?” said Miss Susan, some sarcasm in her 
tone. 

“ I went out sometimes in an evening,” faltered Jessy. And more 
than that could not be drawn from her. 

They did not tell Mr. Page: it would have distressed him too 
much. In a day or two Jessy asked to see a priest. Miss Abigail 
flatly refused, on account of the scandal. As if their minister was 
not good enough ! 

One afternoon 1 was standing by Jessy’s bed— for Miss Abigail 
had let me go up to see her. Mrs. Todhetley, that first day, had 


THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 


32 

8aid she looked like a lily: she was more like one now. A faded 
lily that has had all its bi ghtness washed out of it. 

“ Good-bye, Johnny Ludlow,” she said, opening her eyes, anil 
putting out her feeble hand. “ I shall not see you again.” 

‘‘ 1 hope you will, Jessy. I’ll come over to-morrow.” 

‘‘ Never again in this world.” And 1 had to lean over to catch 
the words, and my eyes were full. 

” In the next world there’ll be no parting, Jessy. We shall see 
each other there.” 

” 1 don’t know,” she said. ‘‘ You will be there, Johnny; 1 can’t 
tell whether 1 shall be. I turned Roman Catholic, you see; and 
Abigail WT»n’t let a priest come. And so — 1 don’t know how it will 
be.” 

The words struck upon me. The Miss Pages had kept the secret 
too closely tor news of it to have come abroad. It seemed worse to 
me to hear it than to her to say it. But she had got too weak to 
feel things strongly. 

” Good-bye, Johnny.” 

“ Good-bye, Jessy dear,” 1 whispered. ” Don’t fear: God will 
be sure to take you to Heaven if you ask Him.” 

Miss Abigail got it out of me — what she had said about the 
priest. In fact, i told. She was very cross. 

” There; let it drop, Johnny Ludlow. John Drench is gone off 
in the gig to Coughton to bring one. All 1 hope and trust is, that 
they’ll not be back until the shades of night have fallen to hide the 
earth! I’d not like a priest to be seen coming into door. Such 
a reproach on good Mr. Holland! I’m sure I trust it will never get 
about!” 

We all have ohr prejudices, 1 repeat. And not a soul amongst us 
for miles round had found it necessary to change religions since the 
Reformation. 

Evening was well on when John Drench brought him in. A 
mild-faced man, wearing a skull-cap under his broad-brimmed hat. 
He saw Jessy alone. Miss Page would not have made a third at 
the interview though they had bribed her to it — and of course they’d 
not have had her. It was quite late wdien he came down. Miss 
Page stopped him as he was going out, after declining refreshment. 

” 1 presume, sir, she has told you all about this past year— that 
has been so mysterious to us?” 

‘‘ Yes; 1 think all,” replied the priest. 

” Will you tell me the particulars?” 

”1 can not do that,” he said. “They have been given to me 
under the seal of confession.” 

“ Only to me and to her sister Susan.” pleaded Abigail. “ We 
will not even disclose it to our falhei. Sir, it w^ould be a true kind- 
ness to us, and it can do her no harm. You do not know what our 
past doubts and distress have been.” 

But the priest shook his head. He was very sorry to refuse, he 
said, but the tenets of his Church forbade his speaking. And Miss 
Page thought he was sorry, for he had a benevoleut face. 

“ Best let the past lie,” he gently added. “ Suffice it to know 
that she is happy now, poor child, and will die in peace.” 


THE MYSTERY OE JESSY PAGE. 


33 


They buried her in the church-yard beside her mother. When the 
secret got about, some said it was not rigid— that she ought to have 
been taken elsewhere, to a grave-yard perraining to the other faith. 
Which would just have put the finishing stroke on old Page — 
broken all of his heart there was left to break. The scpiire said he 
didn't suppose it mattered in the sight of God: or would make much 
difierence at the Last Day. 

And that ended the life of Jessy Page: and. in one sense, its epi- 
sode of mystery. Nothing more was ever heard or known of where 
she had been or what she had done. Years have gone by since; 
and William Page is lying by her. Miss Page and Oliailc}' live on 
at the Copse Farm; Susan has been Mis. John Drench ages ago. 
Her husband, a man of substance now, was driving her into Alces- 
ter last Tuesilay (market-da}^) in his tour-wheeled chaise, twu) buxom 
daughters in the back seat. 1 nodded to them from Mr. Brandon’s 
window. 

There’s nothing more to tell. The mystery of Jessy Page (as we 
grew to call it) remained a mystery. It remains one to this day. 
What the secret was — it there was a secr( t— why she went in the 
way she did, and came back in what looked like shame and f(?ar 
and trembling, a dying girl— has not been solved. It never will be 
in this world. Some old women put it all down to her having 
changed her religion and been afraid to tell: while JMiss Abigail and 
Miss Susan have nev^er got rid of a vague doubt, touching Marcus 
Allen. But it may be only their fancy; they admit that, and say to 
one another when talking of it privately, that it is not right to judge 
a man without cause. He keeps a carriage-anil-pair now, with 
servants outside it; and gives dinners, and has handsome daughters 
growing up; and is altogether grand, quite up to the present style 
of expensive life in London. 

And 1 never go into church on a Christmas morning — whether it 
may be decorated in out simple country fashion, green with its 
branches of holly, or in accordance with your new “ artistic ” 
achievements, great in flowers of many colors and tawdrj'^ scrolls — 
but 1 think of Jessy Page. Of her sweet lace, her simplicity, and 
her want of guile: and of the poor wan wreck that came back, 
broken-hearted, to die. 


I 


CRABB RAVINE 


PART THE FIRST. 

THE STRANGE MAN. 

“ Yes! Halloa! What is il?” 

To be woke up short by a knocking, or other noise, in the night, 
is enough to make you start in bed, and stare round in confusion. 
The room was dark, save tor the light that always glimmers in at 
the window on a summer’s night, and I listened and wailed tor 
more. Nothing came: it was all as silent as the grave. 

We were staying at Crabb Cot. I had gone to bed at half-past 
nine, dead tired alter a day’s fishing. The squire and Tod were 
away; Mrs. Todhetley went over to the Coneys’ after tea, and did 
not seem in a hurry to come back. 1 hey frieti one ot the fish i 
had caught for my supper; and after that, there being nobody to 
speak to, I went to bed. 

It was a knocking that had woke me out of my sleep: 1 was sure 
of that. And it sounded exactly as though it were at lire window^ — 
W'hich was very improhable. Calling out again to know' who was 
there, and what was wanted— but not very loudly, because the chil- 
dren slept within earshot — and getting no answer, 1 lay down again, 
and was all but asleep when the noise came a second time. 

It was at the dining-room window, right underneath mine. There 
could be no mistake. I’he ceilings of the old-fashioned house were 
low; the windows were very near each other, and mine was down 
at the top. 1 thought it time to jump from the bed, and take a 
look out. 

Well, 1 was surprised! Inslead of its being the middle of the 
night, it must be quite early still; for the lamp was yet alight in 
the dining-room. It was a cozy kind of room, with a bow window 
abutting on the garden, whose middle compartment opened to the 
ground lengthways, as French windows do. My window was a 
bow also, and close above the other. Throwing it up, 1 looked 
round. 

There was not a soul to be seen. And the knocking could not 
have been from within, because the inside shutters were shut: they 
did not cover the top panes, and the light of the lamp gleamed 
throuaii them on the mulberry tree. As 1 leaned out, wondering, 
the tinkling old clock at Nortli Crabb church began to tell the hour. 
1 counted the strokes, one by one— ten. Only ten o’clock 1 And 1 
thought 1 had been asleep lialf the night. 

( 34 ) 


CKABB RAVIKB. 


35 


All in a moment I caught sight of somebody moving slowly away. 
He was keeping in the shade; close to the shrubs that encircled the 
lawn, as if not caring to be seen: a short, thin man, in dark clothes 
and round black felt hat. Who he was, and what he wanted, was 
more than 1 could imagine. It could not be a robber. Robbers 
don’t come to houses with a knock before their people have gone to 
bed. 

The small side-gate gave a bang, and Mrs. Todhetley came in. 
Old Coney’s farm was but a stone’s-throw oft. ana she had run 
home by herself. We people in the country think nothing of being 
abroad alone at night. The man emerged from the shade, and put 
himself right into her path, on the gravel walk. They stood there 
together. I could see him better now : there was no moon, but the 
night was light; and it flashed into my mind that he was the same 
man 1 had seen Mrs. Todhetley with in the morning, as 1 went 
across the fields with my rod and line. She was at the stile, about 
to descend into the Ravine, when he came up from it, and accosted 
her. He was a stranger; wearing a seedy, shabby, black coat; and 
1 had w^ondered what he wanted. They were still talking together 
when 1 got out of sight, tor 1 turned to look. 

Not for long did they stand now. The gentleman went away; she 
came scutteriug on with ber head down, a soft kerchief of wool tied 
over her cap. In all North Crabb, nobody was so tearful ot catch- 
ing cold in the face as Mrs. Todhetley. 

“ Who was it?” 1 called out, when she was underneath the win- 
dow: which seemed to startle her considerably, for she gave a spring 
back, right on to the grass. 

“Johnny! how you frightened mel What are you looking out 
at?” 

“ At that fellow who has just taken himself oft. Who is he?” 

“1 do believe you have got on nothing but your night-shirt! 
You’ll be sure to take cold. 8hut the window^ down, and get into 
bed.” 

Four times over, in all, had 1 to ask about the man before 1 got 
an answer. Now it was the night-shirt, now the catching cold, now 
the open window and the damp air. She alw^ays wanted to be as 
tender over us as thougli we w^ere chickens. 

“ The man that met me in the path?” she got to, at length. “ He 
made some excuse tor being here: wuis not sure whose house it was, 
1 think, he said: had turned in by mistake to the wrong one.” 

“ That’s all very fine; but, not tieing sure, he ought to mind his 
manners. He came rapping at the dining-room window like any- 
thing, and it woke me up. Had you been at home, sitting there, 
good mother, you might have been startled out of your seven senses.” 

“ So 1 should, Johnny. The Coneys would not let me come away; 
they had friends with them. Good-night, dear. Shut down that 
window.” 

She went on to the side-door. 1 shut the window down, opened 
it at the lop, and let the white curtain drop before it. It was an 
hour or twm before 1 got to sleep, and had the man and the knock- 
ing in my thoughts all the while. 

“ Don’t say anything about it in the house, Johnn}^” Mrs, Tod- 


CllABB RAVINE. 


36 

hetley said to me, in the morning. “ It might alarm the children.*’ 
So I promised her 1 would not. 

Tod came home at midday, not the squire; and the first thing 1 
did was to tell him. I’d not have broken faith with the mother tor 
the world; not even tor Tod; but it never enteied my mind that she 
wished me to keep it an entire secret, except from those, servants or 
others, who might be likely to repeat it before Hugh and Lena. 1 
cautioned Tod. 

“ Confound his impudence!” cried Tod. “ Could he not be satis- 
fied with disturbing the house by the door at night, but he must 
make if the window? 1 wish 1 had been at home.” 

Crabb Ravine lay to Rie side of our house, beyond the wide field. 
It was a regular wilderness. The sharp descent began in that three- 
cornered grove, of which you’ve heard before, tor it was where 
Daniel Ferrar liung himself; and the wdd, deep, mossy dell, about 
as wide as an ordinary road, went running along below, soft, and 
green, and damp. Towering banks, sloping backwoird, rose on 
either side; a mass of verdure in summer; of briers, brown and 
tangled, in winter. Dwarf shrubs, tall trees, blackberry and nut 
bushes, sweet-brier and broom clustered there in wild profusion. 
Primroses and violets peeped up when spring came in; blue bells 
and cowslips, dog-roses, woodbine, and lots more sweet flowers, 
came later. Few people w'ould descend except by the stile opposite 
our house and the proper zigzag path leading down the side bank, 
for a fall might have snapped limbs, besides bringing one’s pantaloons 
to grief. No houses stood near it, except ours and old Coney’s; and 
the field bordering it .fust here on this side belonged to Squire Tod- 
hetley. It you went down the zigzag path, turned to the right, 
walked along the Ravine some way, and then up another zigzag on 
the opposite side, you came soon to Timbeidale, a small place in 
itself, but our nearest post-town. The high-road to Timberdale, 
winding past our house from South Crabb, w^as double the distance, 
so that people might sometimes be seen in the Ravine b}'" day; but 
nobody cared to go near it at evening, as it had the reputation of 
being haunted. A mysterious light might sometimes be observed 
there at night, dodging itself about the banks, wiiere it would be 
rather difficult tor human legs to walk: some said it was a will-o’- 
the-wisp, and some said a ghost. It was a regular difficulty to get 
even a farm servant to go the near way to Timberdale after dark. 

One morning, when 1 was running through the Ravine with Tod 
in search of Tom Coney, we came slap against a man, w'ho seemed 
to be sneaking there, for he turned short off, amidst the underwood, 
to hide himself. I knew him by his hat. 

” Tod, that’s the man,” 1 wiiispered. 

” 'What man? He from the moon, Johnny?” 

” The one that came knocking at the window three nights ago.” 

“ Oh!” said Tod, carelessly. ‘‘ He looks like a fellow who comes 
out with begging petitions.” 

It might have been an hour after that. We had come up from 
the Ravine, on our side of it, not having seen or spoken to a soul, 
except Luke MacKintosh. Tod told me to stay and waylay Coney 
if he made his appearpee, while he went again to the farm in 
search of him. Accordingly, 1 was sitting on the fence (put there 


CRABB ravine. 


37 


to binder the cattle and sheep from gettinfv over the brink of the 
Ravine), throwing stones and whistling, when 1 saw Mrs. Todhetley 
cross the stile to go down the zigzag. She did not see me: the fence 
cc'iild hardly he gi>t to for trees, and 1 was hidden. 

Just because 1 liad nothing to do, i watched her as she went; tall, 
thin, and light in figure, she could spin along nearly as quick as 
W’e. Tiie zigzag path went in and out, sloping along sideways on 
the bank until it brought itself to the dell at a spot a good bit beyond 
me as 1 looked down, finishing there with a high, rough step. Mrs. 
Todhetley took it with a spring. 

What next? In one moment the man with the black coat and hat 
had appeared from somewhere, and put himself in front of her 
parasol. Before 1 could quit the place, and leap down after her, a 
conviction took me that the meeting was not accidental: and 1 
rubbed my eyes in wonder, and thouglit 1 must be dreaming. 

The summer air was clear as crystal; not a bee’s hum just then 
disturbed its stillness. Detached words ascended from where they 
stood; and now and again a wiiole sentence. She kept looking each 
way as it afraid to be seen; and so did he, for that matter. The 
colloquy seemed to be about money. 1 caught the word two or 
three'iimes; and Mrs, Todhetley said it was '‘impossible.” ” 1 
must, and 1 will have it,” came up distinctly from him in answer. 

“ What’s that, Johnny?” 

The interruption came from Tod. All my attention absorbed in 

them, he stood at my elbow before 1 knew he was near. When 1 
would have answ^ered, he suddenly put his hand upon my mouth 
for silence. His face had a proud anger on it, as he looked down. 

Mrs. Todhetley seemed to be using entreaty to the man, tor she 
clasped her hands in a piteous manner, and then turned to ascend 
the zigzag. He followed her, talking very fast. As to me, 1 was 
in a rq^ular sea of marvel, understanding nothing. Our heads were 
amidst the bushes, hardly to be distinguished from them, even if 
she had looked up. 

” No,” she said, turning round upon him; and they were near us 

then, halt- way up the patli, so that every word was audible. ” You 
must not venture to come to the house, or near the house. 1 would 
not have Mr. Todhetley know of this for the worlU: for your sake 
as well as his.” 

“ Todhetley ’s not at home,” was the man’s answer: and Tod gave 
a growl as he heard it. 

‘‘ If he is not, his son is,” said Mrs. Todhetley. “ It would be 
all the same; or worse.” 

” His son’s here,” roared out passionate Tod. “ What the deuce 
is the meaning of this, sir?” 

The man shot down the path like an arrow. Mis. Todhetley— 
who had been walking on, seeming not to have caught the words, 
or to know whose the voice was, or where it came from— gazed 
round in all directions, her countenance curiously helpless. IShe 
ran up the rest of the zigzag, and went swiftly home across the 
field. Tod disentangled himself from the brambles, and drew a 
long breath. 

” 1 think it’s time that we went now, Johnn5^” 

It was not often he spoke in that tone. He had always been at 


CEABB RAVIKE. 


38 

war tacitly with Mrs. Todhetley, and was not likely to favor her 
now. Generous though ne was by nature, there could be no deny- 
ing that he took up awful prejudices, 

“ It is something about money, Tod.” 

” i don’t care what it is about— the fellow has no business to be 
prowling here, on my father’s grounds; and hQsha'n't he, without 
my knowing what it’s for. Til watch madam’s mov^eraents. ” 

“ What do you think it can mean?” 

‘‘ Mean! Why, that the individual is some poor relation of hers, 
come to drain as much of my lather’s money out of her as he can. 
She is the one to blame, 1 wonder liow she dare encourage him!” 

‘‘ Perhaps she can’t help heiself. ” 

“Not help herself? Don’t show yourself a fool, Johnny. An 
honest-minded, straightforward woman would appeal to rny father 
in any annoyance of tliis sort, or to me in his absence, and say 
‘ Here’s so-and so come down upon us asking for help, can we give 
it him?’— and there’s no doubt the squire would give it him; he’s 
soft enough for anything.” 

It was of no use contending. 1 did not see it in quite that light 
but Tod liked his own opinion. He flung up his head with a 
haughty jerk, 

“ You have tried to defend Mrs. Todhetley before, in trifling 
matters, Johnny; don’t attempt it now. Would any good w^oman, 
say any lady, if you will, subject herself to this kind of thing? — 
hold private meetings with a man — allow him to come tapping at 
her sitting-rooDv window at night? No; not though he were her. 
own brother.” 

“Tod, it may be her brother. She’d not do anything wrong will- 
inely.” 

“ Shut up, Johnny. She never had a brother.” 

Of course 1 shut up forthwith, and went across the field by Tod’s 
side in silence, his strides wide enough tor ten indignant men, his 
head aloft in the air. Mrs. Todhetley was hearing Lena read when 
we got in, and looked as if she had never been abroad ihat morning. 

Some days went on. The man remained near, for he was seen 
occasionally, and the servants began to talk. One remarked upon 
him, wondering who he was; another remarked upon him, specu- 
lating on what he did there. In a quiet country place, a dodging 
stranger excites curiosity, and this one dodged about as much as 
ever the ghost’s light did. If you caught sight of him in the three- 
cornered plantation, he'd vanish forthwith to appear next in the 
Ravine; if he stood peering out from the trees on the bank, and 
found himself observed, the next minute he’d be stooping amid the 
thick broom on the other side. 

This came to be observed, and was thought strange, naturally. 
Hannah, who was often out with Hugh and Lena, savv liim mostly, 
and she talked to the other servants. One evening, when we were 
finishing dinner, the glass doors of the bow-window being open, 
Hannah came back with the children. They ran across the grass- 
plat after the fawn— one we had, just then— and Hannah sat down 
in the porch of the side-door to wait. Old Thomas had just drawn 


CRABB RAYINE. 39 

the slips from the table, and went through the passage to the side- 
door to shake them. 

“ 1 say,” crieci Hannah’s voice, ” 1 saw that man again,” 

” Wliere?” asked Thomas, belweep his shakes of the linen, which 
we could hear distinctly. 

‘‘In the old place —the Ravine He was sitting on the stile at 
the top of the zigzag, as cool as might be.” 

” Did you speak to him? 1 should, it 1 came across the man; and 
ask what his business might be in these parts,” 

‘‘1 didn’t speak to him,” returned Hannah. “I’d rather not.’ 
There’s no knowing the answer one might get, Thomas, or what it 
is he’s looking after. He spoke to the children.” ' 

“ What did he say to them?” 

“ Asked it they’d go. away with him to some beautiful coral isl- 
ands over the sea, and catch pretty birds, and parrots, and monkeys. 
He called them by their names, too~‘ Hugh ’ and ‘ Lena.’ 1 should 
like to know how he got hold of them.’' 

“ 1 can’t help thinking that he belongs to them engineering folks 
who come spying for no good on people’s land; the squire won’t 
like it it they cut a railroad through here,” said Thomas, and the 
supposition did not appear to please Hannah. 

” Why, you must be as silly as a gobbling turkey, old Thomas! 
Engineers have no need to hide themselves as if they were afraid of 
being took up for murder. He has got about as much the cut of an 
engineer as you have, and no more; they don’t go about looking 
like Methodist parsons run to seed. My opinion is that he’s some- 
thing of that sott. ” 

“ A Methodist parson!” 

“No; not anything half so respectable. If 1 spoke out my 
thoughts, though, 1 dare say you’d laugh at me.” 

“Not 1,” said Thomas. “Make haste. 1 forgot to put the 
claret jug on the table.” 

“ Then I’ve got it in my head that he is one of them seducing 
Mormons. They appear in neighborhoods without the smallest 
warning, lie there partly concealed by day, and go abioad at night 
persuading all the likely women and girls to join their sect. My 
sister told me about it in a letter she wrote me only three days ago. 
There has been a Mormon down there; he called himself a saint, 
she says; and when he went finally away he took fifteen young 
women with him. Fifteen, Thomas! and after only three weeks’ 
persuasion! It’s as true as that you’ve got that damask cloth in 
your hand.” 

Nothing further was heard for a minute. Then Thomas spoke. 
“ Has the man here been seen talking with young women?” 

“ Who is to know? They take care Twt to be seen; that’s their 
craft. And so you see, Thomas, I’d rather steer clear of the man, 
and not give him the opportunity of tryinir his arts on me. 1 can 
tell him it’s not Hannah Baber that would be cajoled off to a bar- 
barous desert at the tail of a man who had got fifteen other wives 
besides!— Lord help the women for geese! Miss Lena! (raising her 
voice to a scream), “ don’t you tear about after the fawn like that; 
you’ll put yourself into a pretty heat.” 

“ I’d look him up when 1 came home, if 1 were the squire,” said 


40 


CRABB RAVINE. 


Thomap, who evideBtly took it all gravely in, “ We don’t want a 
JMormon on the place.” 

” If he were not a Mormon, which I’m pretty sure he is, I should 
say he was a kidnapper of children,” went on Hannah, ” After 
we had got past him ever so tar he managed to ’tice Hugh back to 
him at the stile, gave him a sugar-stick, and said he’d lake him 
away if he’d go. It struck me he’d like to kidnap him. Miss Lena, 
then, I won’Thave it! look at your hat on the grass. You’ll get a 
face like the full moon.” 

Tod, sitting at the foot of the table in the squire’s place, had list- 
ened to all this deliberately, showing that he listened. Mrs. Tod- 
,hetley, opposite to him, her back to the light, had tried, in a feeble 
manner, once or twice, to drown the souiTds by saying something. 
But when urgently wanting to speak we often can’t; and her efforls 
died away helplessly. She looked miserably uncomfortable; she 
seemed conscious of Tod’s feeling in the matter; and when Hannah 
wound up '.vitli the bold assertion touching the kidnapping of 
Hugh, she gave a start of alarm, which left her face white, 

” vVho is this man that show's himself in the neighborhood?” 
asked Tod, putting the question to her in a slow, marked manner, 
his dark eyes, stern then, fixed on hers. 

” .Johnny, those cherries don’t look ripe. Try the summer 
apples.” 

it w'as of no use at any time trying to put aside Tod. Before 1 
had answered her that the cherries were ripe enough for me. Tod 
began at her again. 

” Can you tell me who he is?” 

‘‘Hear me, no,” she faintly said. “I can’t tell you anything 
about it.” 

” Nor what he wants?” 

‘‘ No. \V on’t you take some wine, Joseph?” 

‘‘ I shall make it my business to inquire, then,” said Tod, dis- 
regarding the wine and everything else. ‘‘The first time 1 come 
across the man, unless he gives me a perfectly satisfactory answ'er 
as to what he may be doing here on our land, I’ll horsewhip him.” 
Mrs. Todhetley put the trembling fiugers of her left hand into the 
finger-glass, and ilried them. 1 don’t believe she knew what she 
was about more than a baby. 

” The man is nothing to you, .loseph. Why should you interfere 
with him?” 

” I shall interfere because my father is not here to do it,” he an- 
swered, in his least compromising tones. ‘‘ An ill-looking stranger 
has no right to be piowling mysteriously amid us at all. But when 
it comes to knocking at windows at night, to waylaying— people — 
in solitary places, and to exciting comments from the servants, it is 
time somebody interfered to know the leason of it.” 

1 am sure he had been going to say you; but with all his prejudice 
he never was insolent to Mrs. Todhetley, when face to face; and he 
substituted ‘‘ people.” Her pale blue eyes had the saddest light in 
them you can well conceive, and j^et she tried to look as though the 
matter did not concern her. Old'Thomas came in with the folded 
damask slips, little thinking he and Hannah had been overheard, 
put them in the drawer, and set things straight on the sideboard. 


I 


I 


41 


CRABB RAVIiq-E. 

“ What time tea, ma’am?” he asked. 

” Any time,” answered Mrs. Todhetley. ” 1 am going over to 
Mr. Coney’s, but not to stay. Or perhaps you’ll go toi me present- 
ly, Johnny, and ask whether Mrs. Coney has come home,” she 
added, as Thomas left the room. 

1 said I’d go. And it struck me that she must want Mrs. Coney 
very particularly, tor this would make the fifth time 1 had gone on 
the same errand within a week. On the morning following that 
rapping at the window Mrs. Coney got news that Mrs. West, her 
married daughter, was ill, and she started at once by the rail to 
Worcester to visit her. 

” 1 think I’ll go and look for the fellow now,” exclaimed Tod, 
rising from his seat and malving for the window. But Mrs. Tod- 
hetley rose too, like one in mortal fright, and put herself in his way. 

” Joseph,” she said, ” I have no authority over you; you know 
that 1 have never attempted to exercise any since I came home to 
your father’s house; but I must ask you to respect my wishes now.” 

” What wishes?” 

” That you will refrain from sec'king this stranger; that you will 
not speak to or accost him in any way, should you and he by chance 
meet. 1 have good reasons for asking it.” Tod stood stock-still, 
neither saying Yes nor No; only biting his lips in the anger he 
strove to keep down. 

” Oh, very well,” said he. going back to his seat. ” Of course, 
as you put it in this light, 1 have no alternative. A night’s delay 
can not make much difterence, and my father will be home to-mor- 
row to act for himself.” 

” You must not mention it to your father, Joseph. You must 
keep \lfrom him.” 

” 1 shall tell him as soon as he comes home.” 

‘‘ Tell him what? What is it that you suspect? What would 
you tell him?” 

Tod hesitated. He had spoken in random heat; and found, on 
consideration, he was without a case. He could not complain to 
his father of her; in spite of his hasty temper he was honorable as 
the day. Her apparent intimacy with the man would also tie his 
tongue as to him, whomsoever he might be. 

” You must be quite aware that it is not a pleasant thing, or a 
proper thing, to have this mysterious individual encouraged here,” 
he said, looking at her. 

” And you think I encourage him, Joseph?” 

” Well* it seems that you— that 3 'ou must know who he is. 1 saw 
you talking with him one day in the Ravine,” continued Tod, dis- 
daining not to be perfectly open, now it had come to an explana- 
tion. Johnny was with me. If he is a relative of yours, why, 
of course—” 

” He is no relative of mine, Joseph.” And Tod openerl his eyes 
wide to hear the denial. It w^as the view he had taken all along. 

” Then why do you suffer him to annoy you?~and 1 am sure he 
does do it. J^et me deal with him. I'll soon ascertain what his busi- 
ness may be.” 

” But that is just what you must not do,” she said, seeming to 
speak out the trutli in very helplessness, like a frightened child. 


42 


CRABB RAVINE. 


“ You must please leave him in my hands, Joseph; 1 shall be able, 
I daresay, to— to— get rid ot liim shortly.” 

” You Know what he wants?” 

” Yes, 1 am atraid 1 do. It is quite my affair; and you must take 
no more notice of it; above all, you must not say anything to our 
father.” 

How much Tod was condemning her in his heart perha])S he’d 
not have cared to tell ; but he could but be generous, even to his 
slep-mother. 

“ 1 suppose 1 must understand that you are in some kind of 
trouble?” 

“ Indeed 1 am.” 

”11 it is anything in which 1 can help you, you have but to ask 
me to do it,” he said. But his manner was lofty as he spoke, his 
voice had a hard ring in it. 

‘‘ Thank you very much, Joseph,” was the meek, grateful answer. 
” If you will only take no further notice, and say nothing to your 
father when he conies home, it will be sufficiently helping 1113.” 

Tod strolled out, just as angry as he could be; and I lan over to 
the Farm. Jane Coney had got a letter from her mother by the 
afternoon post, saying she might not be home for some days to 
come. 

“Tell Mrs. Todhetley that I am sorry to have to send her bad 
news over and over again,” said Jane Coney, who was sitting in 
the best kitchen, with her muslin sleeves turned up, and a big 
apron on, stripping fruit for jam. The Coneys had brought up 
thsir girls sensibly, not to be ashamed to make themselves thor- 
oughly usetul, in spite of their good education, and the fair fortune 
they’d have. Mary was married; Jane engaged to be. I sat on the 
table by her, sating away at the fruit. 

” Wiiat is it that Mrs. Todhetley wants with my mother, John- 
ny?” 

” As if I knew!” 

” 1 think it must be something urgent. When she came in, that 
morning, only five minutes after wiamma had driven off, she was 
so terribly disappointed, saying she would give a great deal to have 
spoken to her first. My sister is not quite so well again; that’s why 
mamma is staying longer.” 

” I’ll tell her, Jane.” 

” By the way, Johnny, what's this they are saying— about some 
strange man being seen here? A special constable, peeping after 
bad characters?” 

” A special constable?” 

Jane Coney laughed. ” Or a police officer in disguise It is what 
one of our maids told me.” 

” Oh,” 1 answered, carelessly, for somehow 1 did not like the 
words; ” you must mean a man that is looking at the land; an en- 
gineer.” 

” Is that all?” cried Jane Coney. ” How fcolish people are!” 

It was a kind ot untruth, no doubt; but 1 should have told a 
worse in the necessity. 1 did not like the aspect of things; and they 
puzzled my brain unpleasantly all the way home. 

Mrs. Todhetley was at work by the window when 1 got there. 


CRABB RAYINE. 43 

Tod had not made his reappearance; Hugh and Lena were in bed. 
She dropped her work when 1 gave the message. 

“ Not for some days to come vet! Ob, Johnny!” 

“ But what do you want with her?” 

” AVell, 1 do want her. 1 want a triend lust now, Johnny, that’s 
the truth; and 1 think Mrs. Coney would be one.” 

Joe asked it he could help you; and you said ‘ No.’ Can 1?” 

‘‘Johnny, if you could, there’s no one in the world I’d rather 
ask. But you can not.” 

“Why?” 

‘‘ Because ” — she smiled for a moment — ‘‘ you are not old enough. 
If you were — ot age, say— why then 1 woulel.” 

1 had hold of the window-frame, looking at her, and an idea 
struck me. ‘‘ Do 3 ^ou mean that 1 should be able then to command 
money?” 

” Yes, that’s it, Johnny.” 

” But, perhaps— if 1 tvere to write to Mr. Brandon — ” 

” Mush!” she exclaimed in a kind of fright. ‘‘You must not 
talk of tips, Johnny; you dan’l know the sad mischief you might 
do. Oh. if 1 can but keep it from jmu all! Mere comes Joseph,” 
sCe added in a W'hisper; and gathering up her work, went out of 
the room. 

‘‘ Dia 1 not make a sign to you to come alter me?” began Tod, 
in one of his tempers. 

‘‘ But 1 had to go over to the Coneys’. I’ve only just got back.” 

He looked into the room and saw that it was empty. ” Where’s 
madam gone? To the Kavine after her friend?” 

‘‘ yhe was here sewing not a minute ago,” 

‘‘ Johnny, she told a lie. Did you notice the sound of her voice 
when she said the fellow was no relative of hers?” 

‘‘Not particularly.” 

‘‘ 1 did, then. At the moment the denial took me by surprise; 
but 1 remembered the tone later. It had an untrue rine: in it. Mad- 
am (old a lie, Johnu 3 % as sure as that w'e are here: I’d lay my life 
he is a relative of hers, or a connection in some way. 1 don’t think 
now it is money he wants; it it were only that, she’d get it, and 
send him packing. It’s worse than that: disgrace, perhaps.” 

‘‘ What sort of disgrace can it be?” 

‘‘ 1 don’t know. But if something ot the sort is not looming, 
never trust me again. And here am 1, "with my hands tied, forbid- 
den to unravel it. Johnny, I feel just like a wild beast barred up 
in a cage.” 

Had he been a real wild beast he could not have given the win- 
dow-frame a much worse shake, as he passed through in his anger 
to the bench under the mulberry tree. 

W hen 3 mu have to h)ok far back to things, the recollection some- 
times gets puzzled as to the order in which they happened. How 
it canre about 1 am by no means clear, but an uncomfortable feel- 
ing grew up in m 3 '^ mind about Hugh. About both the children, in 
fact, but Hugh more than Lena. Mrs. Todhetley seemed to dread 
Hugh’s being abroad— and I’m sure 1 was not mistaken in thinking 
it. 1 heard her order Hannah to keep the children within view of 
the house, and not to allow Hugh to stray away from her. Had it 


44 


CRABB ravine. 


been "winter weather 1 suppose she'd liave kept them in-doors en- 
tirely; there could be no plea tor it under the blue sky and the hot 
summer sun. 

The squire came home; he had been staying some time with 
friends in Gloucestershire; but Mrs. Coney did not come— although 
Mrs, Todhetley kept sending me for news. Twice 1 saw her talk- 
ing to the strange man; who 1 believed made his abode in the Ra- 
vine. Tod watched, as he had threatened to do; and would often 
appear with drawn-in lips. There was actip'e warfare between him 
'and his step-mother: at least if you can say that wdien both Rept 
silence. As to the squire, he observed nothing, and knew nothing; 
"and nobody enlightened him. )t seems a long while, 1 dare say, 
when reading of this, as if it had extended over a month of Sun- 
da 3 ’'s; but 1 don’t think it lasted much more than a fortnight in all. 

One evening, quite late, when the sun was setting, and the squire 
was smoking his pipe on the lawn, talking to me and Tod, Lena and 
her mother came in at the gate. In spite of the red rays lighting 
up Mrs. Todhetley ’s face, it struck me that I had never seen it look 
more careworn. Lena put her arms on Tod’s knee, and began tell- 
ing about a fright she had had; of a big toad that leaped out of the 
grass, and made her scream and cry. iShe cried “ because nobody 
was with her.” 

” Where was mamma?” asked Tod; but 1 am sure he spoke 
without any ulterior thought. 

” Mamma had gone to the zigzag stile to talk to the man. She 
told me to wait for her.” 

“AVhatman?” cried the squire. 

” Why the man,” said Lena, logically. ” He asks Hugh to go 
with him over the sea to see the birds and the red coral. ” 

If any one face ever turned whiter than another, Mrs. Todhetley’s 
did then. Tod looked at her st.eruly, ungenerously; and her eyes 
fell. She laid hold of Lena’s hand, saying it was bed-time. 

” What man is the child talking about?” the squire asked her. 

” She talks about so many people,” rather faintly answered Mrs. 
Todhetley. ” Come, Lena, dear; Hannah’s waiting for you. Say 
good-night.” 

The squire, quite unsuspicious, thought no more. He got up and 
walked over to the beds to look at the flowers, holding his long 
churchwarden’s pipe in his mouth. Tod put his back against the 
tree. 

” It is getting complicated, Johnny.” 

” What is?” 

“AVhatis! Why madam’s drama. She is afraid of that hinted- 
at scheme of her friend’s— the carrying-olf Master Hugh beyond the 
seas,” 

He spoke in satire. ‘‘ Do you think so?” 1 returned. 

” Upon my word and honor 1 do. She must be an idiot! 1 
should like to give her a good fright.” 

“ Tod, 1 think she is frightened enough without our giving her 
one.” 

“ I think she is. She must have caught up the idea from over- 
hearing Hannah’s gossip with old Thomas. This afternoon Hugh 
was running through the little gate with me; madam came flying 


CRARB RAVINE. 


45 


over the lawn and begged me not to let him out of my hand, or else 
to leave him in-doors. But for being my father’s wife, I should 
have asked her if her common-sense had gone wool-gathering.” 

1 suppose it has, Tod. Fancy a kidnapper in these days! The 
curious thing is, that she should fear anything of the sort.” 

‘‘ If she reall}’' does tear it. 1 tell you, Johnny, the performance 
is growing complicated; somewhat puzzling. But I’ll see it played 
out if 1 live.” 

The week went on to Frida 5 ^ But the afternoon was over, and 
evening set in, before the shock fell upon us: Hugh teas missing. 

The squire had been out in the gig, taking me; and it seems they 
had supposed at home that Hugh was with us. The particulars of 
Hugh’s disappearance, and what had happened in the day, I will 
relate further on. 

The squire thought nothing: he said Hugh must have got into 
Coney’s house or some other neighbor’s house; and sat down to 
dinner, wondering why so much to-do was made. Mrs. Todhetley 
looked scared to death; and Tod tore about as it he were wild. The 
servants were sent here; the out door men 3 ’'onder: it was like a 
second edition of that day in Warwickshire when we lost Lena: 
like it, only worse, more of commotion. Hannah boldly said to her 
tr.istrcss thal the strange man must have carried off the boy. 

Hour after hour the search continued. With no result. Night 
came on, and a bright moon to light it up. But it did not light up 
Hugh. 

JMrs. Todhetley, a dark shawl over her head, and 1 dare say a 
darker fear over her heart, went out for the second or third time to- 
ward the Ravine. I ran after her. We had nearly reached the stile 
at the zigzag, when Tod came bounding over it, 

” Has not the time tor shielding this man gone by, think you?” 
he asked, placing himself in Mrs.^'Todhetley’s path, and speaking 
as coolly as he was able for the agitation thatsliook him. And why 
Tod, with his known carelessness, should be so moved, 1 could not 
fathom. 

” Joseph, 1 do not suppose or think the man knows an 5 Thing of 
Hugh; I have my reasons for it,” she answered, bearing on for the 
stile, and leaning over it to look down into the Ravine’s darkness. 

‘‘ Will you give me permission to inquire that of himself?” 

” You will not find the man. He is gone.” 

” Leave the finding him to me,” persisted Tod. ” Will you 
withdraw the embargo you laid upon me?” 

‘‘ No, no,” she whispered, ” 1 can not do it.” 

The trees had an uncommonly damp feel in the night-air, and 
the place altogether looked as weird as could be. 1 was away then 
in the underwood; she looked down always into the Ravine and 
called Hugh’s name aloud. Nothing but echo answered. 

‘‘It has appeared to me for several days that you have feared 
something of this,” Tod said, trying to get a full view of her face. 
‘‘ It might have been better for— tor all of us— if you had allowed 
me at first to take the affair in hand.” 

‘‘ Perhaps 1 ought; perhaps 1 ought,” she said, bursting into 
tears. ” Heaven knows, though, that I acted from a good motive. 


46 CRABB RAVINE. 

It was not to screen m 5 "selt that I’ve tried to keep the matter 
secret.” 

“Ohl” 

The mocking sarcasm of Tod’s short comment was like nothing 
1 ever heard. 

” To screen me, perhans?” said he. 

‘‘ Well, yes — in a measure, Joseph,” she patiently said. ” 1 only 
wished to spare you vexation. Oh, Joseph! if— it Hugh can not 
be found, and— and all has to come out — who he is and what he 
wants here— remember that i wished nothing but to spare others 
pain.” 

Tod’s eyes were ablaze wuth angiy, haughty light. Spare Mm! 
He thought she was miserably equivocating; he had some such 
idea as tliat she sought (in words) to make him a scape-goat for 
her relative’s sins. What he answered 1 hardly know; except that 
he civilly dared her to speak. 

“Do not spare me.* 1 particularly request you will not,” he 
scornfully retorted. ” Yourself as much as you will, but not me.” 

” I haVe done it for the best,” she pleaded. ‘‘Joseph, 1 have 
done it all for the best.” 

‘‘ Where is this man to be found? 1 have been looking for him 
these several hours past, as 1 should think no man w*as ever looked 
for yet.” 

‘‘ 1 hare said 1 think he is not to be found. 1 think he is gone.” 

‘‘ Gone!” shrieked Tod. ‘‘ Gone!” 

”1 think he must be. 1—1 saw him just before dinner-lime, 
here at this very stile; 1 gave him something that 1 had to give, 
and 1 think he left at once, to make the best of his way from the 
place ” 

‘‘ And Hugh?” asked Tod, savagely. 

‘‘ 1 did not know then that Hugh was missing. Oh, Joseph, 1 
can’t tell what to think. When I said to him one day that he ought 
not to talk nonsense to the childrcu about corals and animals — in 
fact, should not speak (o them at all — he answered that if 1 did not 
get him the money he wanted he’d take the boy off w*ith him. 1 
knew it was a jest; but 1 could not help thinking of it when the 
days went on and on, and 1 had no money to give him.” 

” Of course he has taken the boy,” said Tod, stamping bis foot. 
And the words sent Airs. Todhelley into a tremble. 

‘‘Joseph! Do you think so?” 

‘‘ Heaven help you. Airs. Todhetley, for a — simple woman! We 
mav never see Hugh again.” 

He caught up the word he had been going to say— fool. Airs. 
Todhelley clasped her hands together with a piteous groan, and the 
shawl slipped off her shoulders. 

‘‘ 1 think, madam, you must tell what you can,” he resumed, 
scarcely knowing which to let come uppermost, his anxiety for 
Hugh or his lofty scornful anger. ‘‘ Is the man a relative of 
yours?” 

“No, not of mine. Oh, Joseph, please don’t be angry with me! 
not of mine, but of yours.” 

‘‘ Of mine!” cried proud Tod. ‘‘Thank you. Airs. Todhetley.” 

” His name is Arne,” she whispered. 


CRABB RAVINE. 


47 


“What!” shouted Tod. 

“ Joseph, indeed it is. Alfred Arne.” 

llad Tod been shot by a cannon-ball, he could hardly have been 
more completely struck into himself; doubled up, so to say. His 
mother had been an Arne; and he well remembered to have heard 
of an ill- doing, mauvais sujet of a half-brother of hers, called Al- 
fred, \«ho brought nothing but trouble and disgrace on all con- 
nected with him. There ensued a silence, broken only by Mrs. 
Todhetley’s tears. Tod was looking white in the moonlight. 

“ So it seems it is my aftaii!” he suddenly said; but though he 
drew up his head till he looked as tall as the alder-tree under which 
they stood, all his fierce spirit seemed to have gone out of him. 
“ You can have no objection to speak fully now.” 

And jMrs. Todhelley, partly because of her unresisting nature, 
partly in her fear for Hugh, obeyed him. 

“ 1 had seen Mr. Arne once before,” she began. “ It was the 
same year that i first went home to Dyke Manor. He made his ap- 
pearance there, not openly, but just as he has made it here now. 
His object was to get money from the squire to go abroad with. 
And at length he did get it. But it put your father very much out ; 
made him ill, in fact; and 1 believe he took a kind of vow, in his 
haste and vexation, to give Alfred Arne into custody if he ever 
came within reach of him again. 1 think — 1 fear— he always has 
something or other hanging over his head worse than debt; and 
for that reason can never show himself by daylight without danger.” 

“ Go on,” said Tod, quite calmly. 

“ One morning recently 1 suddenly met him. He stepped right 
into my path, here at this same spot, as 1 was about to descend the 
Ravine, and asked if 1 knew him again. I was afraid 1 did. 1 was 
afraid he had come on the same errand as before: and oh, Joseph, 
how thankful 1 felt that you and your father were aw^ay 1 He toJd 
me a long and pitiful tale, and 1 thought 1 ought to try and help 
him to the money he needed. He was impatient for it, and the 
same evening, supposing no one was at home but myself, he came 
to the dining-room window, wishing to ask if 1 had already pro- 
cured the money. Johnny heard him knock.” 

“ It might have been better that we had been here,” repeated 
Tod. “ Better that we should have dealt with him than you.” 

“ Vour father was so thankful that you were at school before, 
Joseph; so thankful! He said he would not liave you know any- 
thing about Alfred Arne for the wmrld. And so— 1 tried to keep it 
this time from both you and him, and, but for this fear about 
Hugh, 1 should have clone it.” 

Tod did not answmr. He looked at her keenly in the light of the 
summer’s night, apparently w'ailing for more. She continued her 
explanation, not enlarging upon things, suftering, rather, inferences 
to be drawn. The tollowu'ng was its substance: 

Alfred Ame asked for fifty pounds. He had returned to England 
only a few months, had got into some fresh danger, and had to 
leave it again, and to hide himself until he did so. J he fifty pounds 
— to get him oft, he said, and start him afresh in the colonies— -he 
demanded not as a gift, but a matter of right: the Todhetleys, being 
his near relatives, must help him. Mrs. Todhetley knew but of one 


48 


CRABB RAVINE. 


person she could borrow it from privately — Mrs. Coney— and alie 
had gone from home just as she was about to be asked tor it. Only 
this afternoon had Mrs. Todhetley received the money from her 
and paid it to Alfred Arne. 

“ 1 vpould not have told you this, but for being obliged, Joseph,” 
she pleaded meekly, when the brief explanation was ended. “We 
can still keep it from your father; better, perhaps, that you should 
know it than he: you are young and iie is not.” 

“ A great deal better,” assented Tod. “ You have made yourself 
responsible to Mrs. Coney for the fifty pounds?” 

“ Don’t think of that, Joseph. She is in no hurry for repay- 
ment, and will get it from me by degrees, 1 have a little trille of 
my own, you know, that 1 get half-yearly, and 1 can pinch in my 
clothes. 1 did so hope to keep it from 5mu as well as from your 
lather.” 

1 wondered it Tod saw all the patient, generous, self-sacrificing 
spirit. 1 wondered if he was growing to think that he had been al- 
ways on the wrong tack in judging harshly of his step-mother. She 
turned away thinking perhaps that time was being lost. 1 said 
something alDOut Hugh. 

“ Hugh is all right, Johnny; he’ll be found now,” Tod answered 
in a dreamy tone, as he looked after her with a dreamy look. The 
next moment he strode forward, and was up with Mrs. Todhetley. 

“ 1 beg your pardon for the past, mother; 1 beg it with shame 
and contrition. Can you forgive me?” 

“ Oh, pray don’t, dear Joseph! 1 have nothing to forgive,” she 
answered, bursting into fresh tears as she took his offered hand. 
And that w^as the first time in all his life that Tod, prejudiced Tod, 
had allowed himself to call her “ mother.” 


o 


PART THE SECOND. 
tod’s repentance. 

1 NEVER saw anything plainer in my life. It was not just oppo- 
site to where 1 stood, but lower down toward the end of the Ravine. 
Amidst the dark thick underwood of the rising bank it dodged 
about, just as if somebody who was w^alking carried it in his hand 
lifted up in front of him. A round white light, exactly as the 
ghost’s light was described to be. One might have fancied it the 
light of a wax-candle, only that a candle would flicker itself dim and 
bright by turns in the current of air, and this was steady and did 
not. 

If a ghost was carrying it, he must have been pacing backward 
and forward; for the light confined itself to the raiige of a few 
yards. Beginning at the environs of the black old yew-tree, it 
would come on amidst the broom and shrubs to the group of al- 
ders, and then go back again Timberdale way, sometimes lost to 
sight for a minute, as it hidden behind a thicker mass of under- 
wood, and then gleaming out afresh further on in its path, Now 


CRABB RAVINE. 


49 


up, now down; backward and forward; here, there, everywhere; it 
was about as droll and unaccountable a sight as any veritable ghost 
ever ilisplayed, or 1, Johnny Ludlow, had chanced to come upon. 

The early part of the night had been bright. It was the same 
night, spoken of in the last chapter, when Hugh was being searched 
lor. Up to eleven o’clock the moon had shone radiantly. Since 
then a o*urious kind of darkness had come creeping along the heav- 
ens, and now, close upon twelve, it overshadowed the earth like a 
pall. A dark, black canopy, which the slight wind, getting up, 
never stirred, though it sighed and moaned with a weird impleas 
ant sound down the Ravine. 1 did not mind the light mj'self, don’t 
think I should much have minded the Ldiost: but Luke Mackin- : 
tosh, standing by me, did. Considering that he was a good five- 
and-twenty years of age, and had led an out-of-door life, it may 
sound queer to say it, but he seemed timid as a hare. 

“ 1 don’t like it. Master Johnny,” he whispered, as he grasped 
hold of the fence with a shaking hand, and follow'ed the light with 
his eyes. What with the trees around us, and the pall overhead, it 
was dark enough, but 1 could see his face, and knew it had turned 
white. 

” 1 believe you are afraid, Luke!” 

*‘ Well, sir, so might you be if you knowed as much of that there 
light as I’do. It never comes but it bodes trouble.” 

Who brings the light?” 

” It’s more than 1 can say, sir. They call it here the ghost’s 
light. And folks say. Master Johnny, that when it's seen, there’s 
sure to be some bad trouble in the air.” 

” J think we have got trouble enough just now without the light, 
Luke; and our trouble was with us before w’e saw that.” 

The Ravine lay beneath us, stretching out on either hand, w^eird, 
lonesome, dreary, the bottom of it hidden in gloom. The towering 
banks, whether we looked dowm the one we leaned over, or to the 
other opposite, presented nothing to the eye but darkness: W'e knew 
the masses of trees, bushes, underwood were there, but could not 
see them: and the spot favored by the restless light was too wild 
and steep to be sate for the foot of man. Of course it w^as a curious 
speculation what it could be. 

” Did you ever see the light before. Mackintosh?” 

‘‘ Yes,” he answered, ” half a dozen times. Do you mind. Mas- 
ter Johnny, my getting that there bad cut in the leg with my reap- 
ing-hook awhile agone^ Seven weeks 1 lay in Worcester Infirmary: 
they carried me there on a mattress shoved down in the carl.” 

‘‘ 1 remember hearing of it. We were at Dyke Manor.” 

Before Luke w'ent on, he turned liis face to me and dropped his 
voice to a deeper whisper. The man seemed scared three parts 
out of his senses. 

” Master J.udlow, as true as us two be a standing here, 1 saw the 
ghost’s light the verv night afore 1 got the hurt. I was w'orking 
for Mr. Coney then;'^it was before 1 came into the squire’s service. 
Young Master Tom, he came out of the kitchen with a letter when 
we was at our seven o’clock supper, and said 1 were to cut off to 
Timberdale with it and to look sharp, or the letter box ’ud be shut, 
yo I had to do it, sir, and 1 came through this- here Ravine, 


50 


CRABB RAVINE. 


a-whistling and a-holding of my head down, though I’d rather ha’ 
went ten mile round. When 1 got out of it on t’other side, on top 
of the zigzag, 1 chanced to look back over the stiie, and there 1 see 
the light. It were opposite then, on this side, sir, and moving about 
in the same see-saw way it be now, for 1 stood and watched it.” 

” i wonder you plucked up the courage to stand and watch it, 
Luke?” 

” I were took aback, sir; were all in a maze like; and then I 
started oft full pelt, as quick as my heels ’ud carry me. That was 
the very blessed night afore I got the hurt. When tlie doctors was 
a-talking round me at the infirmary, and 1 think they was a-argu- 
ing whetlier or not my leg must come off, 1 tolled ’em that 1 was 
ateared it wouldn’t much matter neither way, for I’d seen the 
ghost's light the past night and knowed my fate. One of them, a 
young man he were, burst out laughing above my face as J lay, and 
the t’other next him, a grave gentleman with white hair, turned 
round and hushed at him. Mastei Ludlow, it’s all gospel true.” 

” But you got well, Luke.” 

‘‘ But I didn’t think to,” argued Luke. ” And I see the light.” 

As he turned his face again, the old church clock at Timberdale 
struck twelve. It seemed to come booming over the Ravine with 
quite a warning sound, and Luke gave himself a shake. As tor 
me, I could only wish one thing — that Hugh was found. 

Tod came up the zigzag path, a lantern in his hand; 1 whistled 
to let him know 1 was near. lie had been to look in the unused lit- 
tle shed-place nearly at the other end of the Ravine; not for Hugh, 
but for the man, Alfred Arne. Tod came up to us, and his face, 
as the lantern flashed upon it, was whiter and graver than that of 
Luke Mackintosh. 

‘‘ Did you see that, sir?” asked Luke. 

See what?” cried Tod, turning with eager sharpness. He 
thought it might be some trace of Hugh. 

“ That there ghost’s light, sir. It’s showing of itself to-night.” 

Angry, perplexed, nearly out of his mind with remorse and fear. 
Tod gave Luke a word of a sort, ordering him to be silent for an 
idiot, and put the lantern down. He then saw the moving light, 
and let his eyes rest on it in momentary curiosity. 

” It’s the ghost’s light, sir,” repeated Luke, for the man seemed 
as if lie and all other interests were lost in that. 

” The deuce take the ghost’s light, and you with it,” said Tod 
passionately. Is this a time to be staring at ghost’s lights? Get 
you into Timberdale, Mackintosh, and see wheWr the police have 
got news of the child.” 

‘‘Master, I’d not go through the Ravine to-night,” was Luke’s 
answer. ” ]No, not though I knowed I was to be killed at to-mor- 
row’s dawn for disobeying of the order.” 

” Man, what are you afraid of?” 

‘‘ Of that,” said Luke, nodding at the light. ‘‘ But I don’t like 
the Ravine in the night at no time.” 

“Why, that’s nothing but a will-o’-the-wisp,” returned Tod 
condescending to reason with him. ’ 

Luke shook his head. There was the light; and neither his faith 


CRABB RAVINB. 51 

in it nor his fear could be shaken. Tod had his arms on the fence 
now, and was staring at the light as fixedly as Luke had done. 

“ Johnny ” 

“ What?” 

‘‘ That light is carried by some one. It’s being lifted about.” 

” How could any one carry it there?” 1 returned. ” He’d pitch 
head over heels down the Ravine. No fellow could get to the place, 
Tod, let alone keep his footing. It’s where the bushes are thickest.” 

Tod caught up 'the lantern. As its light flashed on his face, 1 
could see it working with new eagerness. He was taking up the 
notion that Hugh might have fallen on that very spot, anil that 
somebody was waving a light to attract attention. As to ghosts, 
Tod would have met an army of them without the smallest tear. 

He went back down the Ravine, and we heard him go crashing 
through the underwood. Luke never spoke a word. All on a sud- 
den. long before Tod could get to it, the light disappeared. We 
waited and watched, but it did not come again. 

‘‘It have been like that always, Master Johnny,” whispered 
Luke, taking his arms oif the fence. ‘‘ P'olks may look as long as 
they will at that there light; but as soon as they go off, a-trying to 
see what it is, it takes itself away. It will be seen no more to- 
night, sir.” 

He turned off across the meadow for the high road, to go and do 
Tod’s bidding at Timberdale, walking at a sharp pace. Any amount 
of exertion would have been welcome to Mackintosh, as an alterna- 
tive to passing through the Ravine. 

It may be remembered that for some days we had been vaguely 
uneasy about Hugh, and the uneasiness had penetrated to Mrs. 
Todhetiey. Tod liad made private mockery of it to me, thinking 
she must be three parts a fool to entertain any such fear. ‘‘ 1 should 
like to give madam a fright,” he said to me one day— meaning that 
he’d like to hide little Hugh for a time. But 1 never supposed he 
would really do it. And it was only to-night— hours and hours 
after Hugh ilisappeared, that Tod avowed to me the part he had 
taken in the loss. To make it clear to the reader, we must go hack 
to the morning of this same day— Friday. 

After breakfast 1 was shut up with my books, paying no attention 
to anything that might be going on, inside the house or out of it. 
Old Frost gave us a woful lot to do in the holidays. The voices 
of the children, playing at the swing, came wafting in through the 
open window; but they died away to quietness as the morning went 
on. xAbout twelve o’clock Mrs. Todhetiey looked in. 

•‘ Are the children here, Johnny?” ^ « 

fcjhe saw they were not, and went away without waiting for an 
answ'er. Lena ran up the passage, and 1 heard her say papa had 
taken Hugh out in the pony-gig. The interruption made an excuse 
for putting up the books tor the day, and 1 went out. 

Of all young raffamuffins, the worst came running after me as 1 
went through the fold-yard gate. Master Hugh! Whether he had 
been in the green pond again or over the house-roof, he was in a 
state to behold; his blue eyes not to be seen tor mud, his straw hat 
bent, his brown holland blouse all tatters and slime, and the pretty 


52 CRABB RAVIN'E. 

fair curls that Hannali was proud of and wasted her time over, a 
regular mass of tangle. 

“ Take me with you, Johnny!” 

“ 1 should think 1 would, like that! "What have you been doing 
with yours(3]t?” 

” Flaying with the puppy. We fell down in the mud amid the 
bucks. Joe says I am to stop in the barn and hide myself. 1 am 
afraid to go in-doors.” 

” You’ll catch it, and no mistake. Come, be off back.” 

But he’d not go back, and kept running by my side under the 
high hedge. When we came to the gate at the end of the field, I 
stood and ordered him to go. He began to cry a little. 

” Now, Hugh, you know you can not go with me in that plight. 
Walk yourself straight otf to Hannah and get her to change the 
things before your mamma sees you. There; you may have the 
biscuit; 1 don’t much care for it.” 

It was a big captain’s biscuit that 1 had caught up in going 
through the dining-room. He took that readily enough, the young 
cormorant, but he’d not stir any the more for it; and 1 might have 
had the small object with me till now, but for the appearance of 
the squie’s gig in the lane. The moment Hu<rh caught sight of his 
papa, he tuned tail and scampered away like a young wild animal. 
Remembering Mrs. Todhetley’s foolish fear, 1 mounted the gate 
and watched him turn safely in at the other. 

‘‘ What are you looking at, Johnny?” asked the squire, as he 
drove leisurely up. 

” At Hugh, sir. I’ve sent him in-doors.” 

” I’m going over to Massock’s, Johnny, about the bricks for that 
cottage. You can get up, it you like to come with me.” 

1 got into the gig at once, and we drove to South Crabb, to Mas- 
sock’s place. He was not to be seen; his people thought he had 
gone out tor the day. Upon that, the squire went on to see old 
Cartwright and they made us stop there and put up the pony. 
When w^e reached home it was past dinner-time. Mrs. Todhelley 
came running out. 

” Couldn’t get here before; the Cartwrights kept us,” called out 
the squire. ” We are going to catch it, Johnny,” he whispered to 
me, with a laugh; ” we’ve left the dinner spoil.” 

But it was not the dinner. ‘‘ Where's Hugh?” asked Mrs. Tod- 
hetley. 

” I’ve not seen Hugh,” said the squire, flinging the reins to Luke 
Mackintosh, who had come up. Luke did all kinds of odd jobs 
about the place, and sometimes helped the groom. 

” But you took Hugh out with you,” she said. 

” Not I,” answered the squire. 

Mrs. Trodlietley’s face turned white. She looked from one to the 
othei of us in a helpless kind of manner. “Lena said you did,” 
she re:urned, and her voice seemed to fear its own sound. The 
sguire, talking with Mackintosh about the pony, noticed nothing 
particular. 

” Lena did? Oh, ay, 1 remember. 1 let Hugh get up at the door 
and drove him round to the fold yard gate. 1 dro'pped him lliere.” 

He went in as he spoke; Mrs. Todhetlev seemed undecided 


CRABB RAVliq-E. 53 

■whether to follow him. Tod had his hack against the door-post, 
listening. 

“ What are you alarmed at?” he asked her, not even attempting 
to suppress his mocking tone. 

‘‘ Oh, Johnny!” she said, ” have you not seen him?” 

” Yes; and a line pickle he was in,” 1 answered, telling about it. 
” I dare say Hannah has put him to bed for punishment.” 

” But Hannah has not,” said Mrs. Todhetley. ” She came down 
at tour o'clock to inquire if he had come in.” 

However, thinking that it might possibly turn out to be so. she 
ran in to ascertain. Tod put his hand on my shoulder, and walked 
me further off. 

Johnny, did Hugh really not go with you?” 

” Why of course he did not. Should 1 deny it if he did?” 

” W’here the dickens can the young idiot have got to?” mused 
Tod. ” Jeftries vowed he saw him go off with you down the field, 
Johnny.” 

” But 1 sent him back. I watched him in at the fold-yard gate. 
You don’t suppose 1 could take him luilher in that pickle!” 

Tod laughed a little at the remembrance. Mrs. Todhetley re- 
turned, sajdng Hugh was not to be found anywhere. She looked 
ready to die. Tod was inwardly enjoying her fright beyond every- 
thing; it was better than a play to him. His particularly easy aspect 
struck her. 

” Oh, Joseph!” she implored, ‘‘ if you know where he is, pray 
tell me.” 

“ How should 1 know?” returned Tod. “ 1 protest on my honor 
1 have not set eyes on him since before luncheon to-day. ” 

“ Do you know where he is, Tod?” 1 asked him, as she turned 
in-doors. 

‘‘ No; but 1 can guess. He’s not far off. And 1 really did think 
he was with you, Johnny. 1 suppose I must go and bring him in, 
now; but I’d give every individual thing my pockets contain if 
madam bad had a few hours flight of it, instead of a few minutes ” 

The dinner-bell was ringing, but Tod went oft in an opposite 
direction And 1 must explain here what he knew of it, though he 
did not tell me then. Walking through the fold- yard that morn- 
in^^, he had come upon Master Hugh, just emerging from the bed 
ot*^green mud, crying his eyes out, and a piteous object. Hannah 
had promised Hugh that the next time he got into this state of grief 
she -wmuld carry him to the squire. Hugh knew she’d be sure to 
keep her word, and that the upshot would probably be a whipping. 
Tod, after gratifying his eyes with the choice spectacle, and listen- 
ing to the fears of the whipping, calmly assured the young gentle- 
man that he was ” in for it,” at which Hugh only howled the more. 
All in a moment it occurred to Tod to make use of this opportunity 
to fric^hten Mrs. Todhetley. He look Hugh oft to the tarn, and told 
liim that if he’d hide himself there until the evening, he’d not only 
get him oft his whipping, but give him all sorts of good things be- 
sides. Hu‘>-h was willing to promise, but said he wanted his dinner, 
upon which Tod went and brought him a heap of bread and butter, 
telling Molly, who cut it, that it was for himself. Tod left him de- 
vouring it in the dark corner behind the wagon, particularly im- 


CRABB RAVINE. 


54 

pressing upon him the fact that he was to keep close and make no 
sign it Ills mamma or Hannah, or an)d)ociy else, came to look for 
him. One of the iren, Jeffries, was at work in tlie barn, and Tod, 
BO to say, took him into confidence, ordering him to know nothing 
if Master Hugh were inquired for. As Jlannah and Jeffries were 
at daggers drawn, and the man supposed this liiding was to spite 
her, he entered into it with interest. 

There were two barns at Crabb Cot. Oiie some way dowm the 
road; in front of the house was the store born, and you’ve iieard of 
it before in connection with something seen by Maria Lease. It was 
called the yellow barn from the color of its outer walls. The other 
of red brick, was right at the back of the lold- 3 ’ard, and it was in 
tiiis last that Tod left Hugh, all safe and secure, as he thought, un- 
til told he might come out again. 

But now, when Tod went into the dining-room to luncheon at 
half-past twelve— we country people breakfast earl}’-— at which meal 
he expected the hue and cry after Hugh to set in, for it was the 
children’s dinner, he found there was a hitch in the programme. 
Mrs. Todhetley appeared perfectly easy on tlie score of Hugh’s 
absence, and i)resently casually mentioned that he had gone out 
with his papa in the pony-gig. Tod’s lips parted to say that Hugh 
was not in the pony-gig, but in a state of pickle instead. Prudence 
caused him to close them again. Hannah, standing behind Lena’s 
chair, openly gave thanks that the child was got rid of for a bit, 
and said he was “getting almost beyond her.” Tod bit his lips 
with vexation: the gilt was taken off the gingerbread. He went to 
the barn again presently, and then found that Hugh had left it, 
Jeffries said he saw’ him going toward the lane with Master Ludlow, 
and supposed that the little lad had taken the opportunity to slip 
out of the barn when he (Jeffries) went to dinner, at twelve o’clock. 
And thus the whole afternoon had gone peaceably and unsuspi- 
ciously on; Mrs. Todhetley and Hannah supposing Hugli w’as with 
th-e squire. Tod supposing he must be somew here with me. 

And when we both appeared at home without him. Tod took it 
for granted that Hugh had gone back to his hiding-place in the barn, 
and a qualm of conscience shot through him tor leaving the lad 
there so many hours unlooked after. He rushed off to it at once, 
while the dinner-bell w’as ringing. But wdien he got there, Jeffries 
declared Hugh had not been back to it at all. Tod, in his liot way, 
retorted on Jeffries for saying so; but the man persisted that he 
could not be mistaken, as iie had never been away from the barn 
since coming back from dinner. 

And then arose the commotion. Tod came back with a stern 
face, almost as anxious as Mrs. Todhetley ’s. Hugh had not been 
seen, so tar as could be ascertained, since 1 watched him in at the 
fold-yard gate soon after twelve. That was nearly seven hours ago. 
Tod felt himself responsible for the loss, and sent the men to look 
about. But the worst he thought then W’as, that the boy, wiiose 
tears of showing himself in his state of dilapidation Tod himself 
had mischievously augmented, had laid down somewhere or other 
and dropped asleep. 

It had gone on, and on, and on, until late at night, and then had 
occurred that explanation iiAt.weeu Tod and his step-mother told of 


CRABB RAVIiq':^. 


5o 


in the other paper. Tod was all impulse, and pride, and heat, and 
passion; hut his heart was made of - sterlinj^ gold, just like the 
squire’s. Holding himself aloof from her in haughty condemnation, 
in the matter of the mysterious stranger, to find now that the 
stranger was a man called Alfred Arne, Ms relative, and that Mrs. 
Todhetley had been generously taking the trouble upon herself tor 
the sake of sparing him and his father pain, completely luined Tod 
and Ids pride over. 

He had grown desperately frightened as the hours went on. The 
moonlit night had become dark, as I’ve alreadj said, and the men 
could not pursue their search to much efi:ect. Tod did not cease 
his. He got a lantern, and went rushing about as if he were crazy. 
You saw him come up with it from the Ravine, and now he^ had 
gone back on a wild-goose chase after the ghost’s light. M heie 
was Hugh? Where could he be? It was not likely Alfred Arne 
had taken him, because he had that afternoon got from Mrs. Tod- 
hetley the fifty pounds he worried for, and she thought he had gone 
finally oft with It. It stood to reason that the child would be an 
incumbrance to him. On the other hand, Tod’s theory, that Hugh 
had dropped asleep somewhere, seemed, as the hours crept on, less 
and less likely to hold water, for he’d have weakened up and come 
home long ago. As to the Ravine, in spite of Tod’s suspicions that 
he might be there, 1 was sure the little fellow wmuld not have vent- 
ured into it. 

1 stood on, in the dark night, waiting for Tod to come back again. 
It felt awfully desolate now Luke Mackintosh had gone. The 
ghost’s light did not show/ again. 1 rather wished it would, tor com- 
pany. He came at last— Tod, not the ghost. 1 had heard him 
shouting, and nothing answered but the echoes. A piece of his 
coat was’ torn, and some brambles were slicking to him, and the 
lantern was broken; what dangerous places he had pushed himself 
into could never be told. 

“ I w'onder you’ve come out with whole limbs. Tod." 

“ Hold your peace, Johnny,” w'as all the retort 1 got; and his 
voice rose nearly to a shout in its desperate sorrow. 

Morning came, but no news with it, no Hugh. Tod had been 
about all night. With daylight, the fields, and all other seemingly 
possible places, were searched. Tom Coney went knocking at every 
house in North and South Crabb, and burst into cottages, and turned 
over, so to say, all the dwellings in that savory locality, Crabb Lane, 
but with no result. The squire was getting anxious; but none of us 
had ventured to tell him of our especial cause for anxiety, or to 
speak of Alfred Arne 

It appeared nearly certain now, to us, that he had gone with Al- 
fred Arne, and, after a private consultation with Mrs. Todhetley, 
Tod and I set out in search of the man. She still wished to spare 
the knowledge of his visit to the squire, it )) 0 ssible. 

We had not far to go. Mrs. Todhetley’s fears went ranging 
abroad to London, or Liverpool, or the Coral Islands beyond the 
sea, of which Arne had talked to Hugh: but Arne was found at 
Timberaale. In an obscure lodging in the further outskirts of the 
place, the landlord of which, a man named Cookum, was a bad 


CRABB RAVINE. 


56 

character, and very shy of the police, Arne was found. We might 
have searched for him to the month’s end, but for Luke Mackin- 
tosh. When Luke arrived at Timherdale in the middle of the night, 
ordered thither by Tod to make inquiries at the police-station, he 
saw a tipsy man slink into Cookum’s house, and recognized him 
for the one who had recently been exciting speculation at home. 
Luke happened to mention this to Tod, not connecting Bugli with 
it at all, simply as a bit of gossip: of course it was not known who 
Arne was, or his name, or what he had been waiting for. 

We had a tight to get in. Cookum came leaping down the crazy 
stairs, and put himself in our way in the passage, swearing we 
should not go on. Tod lifted his strong hand. 

“ 1 mean to go on, Cookum,” he said, in a slow, quiet voice that 
had determination in every tone of it. ” 1 have come to see a man 
named Arne. 1 don’t want to do him any ill, or you either; but, 
see him, 1 will. It you do not move out of my way I’ll knock you 
down.” 

Cookum stood his ground. He was short, slight, and sickly, 
with a puffy face and red hair; a very reed beside Tod, 

” There ain’t no man here of that name. There ain’t no man 
here at all.” 

“ Very well. Then you can’t object to letting me see that there 
is not.” 

‘‘ 1 swear that you sha’n’t see, master. There!” 

Tod flung him aside, Cookum, something like an eel, slipped 
under Tod’s arm, and was in front again. 

‘‘ 1 don’t care to damage you, Cookum, as you must see I could 
do, and force my way in over your disabled body; .you look too 
w'eak for it. But I’ll either go in so, or the police shall clear an en- 
trance for me.” 

The mention of the police scared the man; 1 saw it in his face. 
Tod kept pushing on and the man backing, just a little. 

” 1 won’t have no police here. W'hat is it you want?” 

” 1 have told you once. A man named Arne.” 

” 1 swear then that 1 never kuowed a man o’ that name; let alone 
having him in my place.” 

And he spoke with such passionate fervor that it struck me Arne 
did not go by his own name: which was more than probable. They 
were past the stairs now, and Cookum did not seem to care to guard 
them. The nasty passage, long and narrow, its w^et walls nearly 
touching one’s arms on either side, had a door at the end. Tod 
thought ihat must be the fortress. 

“You are a great fool, Cookum. I’ve told you that 1 mean no 
harm to you or to anybody in the place; so to make this fuss is 
needless. You may have a band of felons concealed here, or a cart- 
load of stolen goods; they are all safe for me. But if you force me 
to bring in the police it might be a different matter.” 

Perhaps the argument told on the man; perhaps the tone of rea- 
son it was spoken in; but he certainly seemed to hesitate. 

” Y on can’t prove that to me, master! not that there’s any felons 
or things in here. Show me that you don’t mean harm, and you 
shall go on.” * -r 

‘‘ Have you got a stolen child here?” 


CRABB RAVIKE. 5? 

Cookum’s moutli opened with fiemiine surprise. “A stolen 
child!” 

“We have lost a little boy. 1 have reason to think that a man 
who was seen to enter this passage in the middle of the night know^s 
something of him, and 1 have come to ask and see. Now you 
know all. Let me go on.” 

The relief on the man’s face was great. ” Honor bright, mas- 
ter?” 

” Don’t stand quibbling, man,” roared Tod, passionately. “Yes!” 

‘‘I’ve got but one man in all the place. He have got no boy 
with him, he haven’t.” 

” But he may know something of one. What’s his name?” 

‘‘ All the name he’ve give to me is •lack.” 

‘‘ 1 dare say it’s the same. Come! you are wasting time.” 

But Cookum, doubtful still, never moved. They were close to 
the door now, and he had bis back against it. Tod turned his head. 

” Go for the two policemen, Johnny. They are both in readi- 
ness, Cookum. 1 looked in at the station as 1 came by, to say I 
might want them.” 

Before I could get out, Cookum howled out to me not to go, as 
one in mortal fear. He took a latch-key from his pocket, and put 
it into the latch of the door, which had no other fastening outside, 
not even a handle. ‘‘ You can open it yourself,” said he to Tod, 
and slipped away. 

It might have been a sort of kitchen but that it looked so like a 
den, with nothing to light it but a dirty sky-light above. The floor 
was ot red brick: a tea-kettle boiled on the fire; there was a smell 
of coffee. Alfred Arne stood on the defensive against the opposite 
wall, a life-preserver in his hand, and his thin liair on end with 
fright. 

‘‘lam here on a peaceable errand, if you will allow it to be so,” 
said Tod, shutting us in. ” Is your name Arne?” 

Arne dropped the life-preserver into the breast-pocket of his coat, 
and came forw\ard with something of a gentleman’s courtesy. 

‘‘ Yes, my name is Arne, Joseph Todhetley. And your mother 
— .as 1 make no doubt you know— wms a very near relative of mine. 
If you damage me, you will bring her name unpleasantly before the 
public, as well as your own and your father’s.” 

That he thought our errand was to demand back the fifty pounds, 
there could be no doubt; perhaps to hand him into custody if he 
refused to give it up. 

” I have not com*e to damage you in any way,” said Tod in an- 
swer. ‘‘Where’s Hugh?” 

Arne looked as surprised as the other man had. ‘‘ Hugh!” 

” Y'es, Hugh: my little brother. Where is he?” 

‘‘ How can 1 telU” 

Tod glanced round the place; there was not any nook or corner 
capable of affording concealment. Arne gazed at him. He stood on 
that side the dirty deal table, we on this. 

” AVe have lost Hugh since midday yesterday. Do you know any- 
thing of iiim?” 

‘‘ Certainly not” was the emphatic answer, and 1 at least saw 


68 


CRABB RAVINE. 


that it was a true one. “Is it to ask that, tliat you have come 
here?" 

“ For that, and nothing else. We have been up all night search- 
ing for him.” 

“ But why do you come aftei him here? 1 am not likely to know 
where he is.” 

“ 1 think you are likely.” 

“ Why?” 

“ You have been talking to the boy about carrying him off with 
you to see coral islands. You hinted, 1 believe, to Mrs, Todhetley 
that you might really take him, if your demands were not complied 
with.” 

Arne slightly laughed. “ 1 talked to the boy about the Coral 
Islands because it pleased him. As to Mrs. Todhetley, it she has 
the sense of a goose, she must have known 1 meant nothing. Take 
oft a child with me! Wliy, if he were made a present to me, 1 
should only drop him at his own door at Ciabb Cot, as they drop 
liie foundlings at the gate of the Maison Dieu in Paris. Joseph 
Todhetley, 1 could not be encumbered with a child: the life of shifts 
and concealment I have to lead would debar it.” 

1 think Tod saw he was in earnest. But he stood in indecision; 
this dashed out his great hope. 

“ 1 should have been away from here last night, but that 1 got a 
drop too much and must wait till dark again,” resumed Arne. 
“ The last time 1 saw Hugh was on Thursday afternoon. He was 
in the meadow with you.” 

“ I did not see you,” remarked Tod. 

“1 saw you, though. And that is the last lime I saw him. 
Don’t you believe me? Y^ou may. 1 like the litlle lad, and would 
find him for you if 1 could, ridlier than help to lose him. I’d say 
lake my honor upon this, Joseph Todhetley, only you might retort 
that it lins not been worth anything this many a year.” 

“ And with justice,” said Tod, boldly. 

“ True. The world has been against me and I against the world. 
But it has not come yet with me to steal children. With the loan 
of the money now safe in my pocket, 1 shall make a fresh start in 
life. A precious long time your step-mothei kept me waiting for 
it.” 

“ She did her best. You ought not to have applied to her at all.” 

“ 1 know that: it should have been to the other side of the 
house. She prevented me: wanting, she said, to spare you and 
your father.” 

” The knowledge of the disgrace. Y’’es.” 

“ Tliere’s no need to have recourse to hard names, Joseph Tod- 
hetley. What 1 am, 1 am: but 3 mu have not much cause to grum- 
ble, for 1 don’t trouble you often. As many thousand mi’es away 
as the seas can put between me and England I’m going now: and 
it’s nearly as manj' chances to one against jmur ever seeing me 
again.” 

Tod turned to depart: the intensely haughty look his face wmre 
at odd moments had been upon it throughout the interview. Had 
he been a woman he might have stood with his skirts picked up, as 


CKABB RAVINE. 


59 


if to save them contamination from some kind of reptile. He 
stayed for a final word. 

“ Then 1 may take your answer in good faith— that you know 
nothing of Hugh?” 

” Take it, or not, as you please. If I knew that I was going to 
stand next minute in the presence of Heaven, 1 could not give it 
more truthfully. For tne child’s own sake, 1 hope he will he found. 
Why don’t you ask the man who owns the rooms?— he can tell you 
1 have had no boy here. If you choose to watch me away_ to- 
night, do so; you’ll see 1 go alone. A child with me! 1 might 
about as well give myself up to the law at once, for 1 shouldn’t 
long remain out of its clutches, Joseph Todhetley. ” 

Good-morning,” said Tod shortly. 1 echoed tne words, and 
we were civilly answered. As we went out, Arne shut the door 
behind us. In the middle of the passage stood Cookum. 

” Have you found he was who you wanted, sir?” 

” Yes,” answered Tod, not vouchsafing to explain. “ Another 
time when 1 say 1 do not wish to harm you, perhaps you’ll take my 

word.” . , 

Mrs. Todhetley, pale and anxious, was standing under the mul- 
berry-tree when we got back. She came across the grass. 

“ Any news?” cried Tod. As if the sight of her was not 
enough, that he need have asked! 

‘‘ Ko', no, Joseph. Did you see him?” 

“ Yes, he had not left. He knows nothing of Hugh. 

“ 1 had no hope that he did,” moaned poor Mrs. Todhetley. 
‘‘ All he wanted was the money.” 

We turned into the dining-room by the glass doors, and it seemed 
to strike out a gloomy chill. On the wall near the window, there 
was a chalk drawing of Hugh in colors, hung up by a bit of com- 
mon string, it was only a rough sketch that Jane Coney had done 
half in sport; but it was like him, especially in the blue eyes and 
the prtitty light hair. 

“ Where’s my father?” asked Tod. 

” Gone riding over to the brick-fields again,” she answered: ” he 
can not get it out of his mind that Hugh must be there. Joseph, 
as Mr. Arne has nothing to do with the loss, we can still spare your 
father the knowledge that he has been here. Spare it, 1 mean, for 


good.” 

Hugh was uncommonly fond of old Massock s biick-flelds; he 
would go there on any occasion that ofl:ered, had once or twice 
strayed there a truant; sending Hannah, for the time being into a 
state of mortal fright. The squire’s opinion was that Hugh must 
have decamped there sometime in the course of the Friday after- 
noon, perhaps followed the gig; and was staying there, atraid to 

lie might have hung on to the tail of the gig itself, and 1 and 
Johnny never have seen him, the ’cute Turk,” argued the squire. 

Whfch 1 knew was just as likely as that he had, unseen, hyrng 
on to the moon. In the state he had brought his clotnes to, he d 
not have gone to the brick-fields at all. The squire did riot seem so 
uneasy as he might have been. Hugh would be sure to turn up. 


CEABB RAVINE. 


GO 

he said, and should get the soundest whipping any young rascal 
ever had. 

But he came riding back trom the brick-fields as before — without 
him. Tod, awfully impatient, met him in the road by ihe yellow 
barn. The squire got ofl his horse there, for Luke Mackintosh was 
at hand to take it. 

“ Father, 1 can not think of any other place he can have got to: 
we have searched everywhere. Can you?” 

” Not 1, Joe. Don’t be down-hearted. He’ll turnup; he’ll turn 
up. Halloa!” broke ofi the squire as an idea struck him, ” has this 
barn been searched?” 

” He can’t be in there, sir; it’s just a moral impossibility that he 
could be,” spoke up Mackintosh. “ The place was empty, which 
1 can be upon my oath, when 1 locked it up yesterday afternoon, 
after getting some corn out; and the key have never been out o’ 
my trousers’ pocket since. Mr. Joseph, he w^as inside with me at 
the time, and he knows it.” 

Tod nodded assent, and the squire walked away. As there was 
no other accessible entrance to the front barn, and the windows 
were ever so many yards from the ground, they felt it must be, as 
the man said, a ” moral impossibility.” 

The da}’^ went on — it was rialurday, lemembei — and the miserable 
hours went on, and there came no trace of the child. The Ravine 
was again searched thoroughly, that is, as thoroughl}’" as its over- 
growm state permitted. It w^as like waste of time; tor Huirh w'ould 
not have hidden himself in it; and if he had fallen over the fence 
he’d have been found before from the traces that must have been 
left in the’ bushes. The searchers would come in. one after another, 
now a faim-servant. now one of the police, bringing no news, except 
of defeat, but hoping somebody else had brought it. Every time 
that Tod looked at the poor mild face of Mrs. Todhetley, alwaj’s 
meek and patient, striving ever to hide the anguish that each fresh 
disappointment brought, 1 know he felt ready to hang himself. It 
was getting dusk when Maria Lease came up with a piece of straw 
hat that she had found in the withy walk. But both Mrs. Todhetley 
and Hannah, upon looking at it, decided that the straw was of finer 
grain than Hugh’s. 

That afternoon they dragged the pond, but there was nothing 
found in it. We could get no traces anywhere. Nobody had seen 
him. nobody heard of him. From the moment when 1 had watched 
him into the fold-yard gate it seemed that he had allogether van- 
ished from above ground. Since then all scent of hirn w^as miss- 
ing. It was very strange: just as though the boy had been spirited 
away. 

Sunday morning rose. As lovely a Sunday as ever this woihl 
saw, but all sad for us. Tod had flung himself back in the Rater’s 
easy-chair, pretty nigh done over. two nights, and he had not 
been to bed. In spite of his faith in Alfred Arne’s denial, he had 
chosen to watch him away in the night trom Timberdale; and he saw 
the man steal off in the darkness on foot and alone. The incessant 
hunting about W'as bringing its reaction on Tod, and the fatigue of 
body and mind began to show itself. But as to giving in, he’d 


CRABB RAVINE. Gl 

never do that, and would be as likely as not to walk and worry 
himself into a fever. 

The day was warm and beautiful; the glass doors of the room 
stood open to the sweet summer air. Light fleecy clouds floated 
over the blue sky, the sun shone on the green grass of the lawn and 
sparkled amid the leaves of the great mulberry-tTee. Butterflies 
flitted past in pairs, chasing each other; bees sent torth tlieir hum 
as they sipped thelioney-dew from the flowers; the birds sung their 
love-songs on the boughs: all seemed happiness outside, as if to 
mock our care within. 

Tod lay back with his eyes closed: 1 sat on the arm of the old red 
sofa. The bells of North Crabb church rang out for morning serv- 
ice. It was a rather cracked old peal, but on great occasions the 
ringers assembled and did their best. The Bishop of Worcester 
was coming over to-day to preach a charity sermon: and North 
Crabb never had anything greater than that. Tod opened his eyes 
and listened in silence. 

“ Tori, do you know what it puts me in mind of?” 

” Don’t bother. It’s because of the bishop, 1 suppose.” 

“ 1 don’t mean the bells. It’s like the old table, told of in ‘ The 
Mistletoe Bough,’ enacted in real life. If there were any deep chest 
about the premises — ” 

” Hold your peace, Johnny!— unless you want to drive me mad. 
If we come upon the child like that. I’ll — I’ll 

1 think be was going to say shoot himself, or something of that 
sort, tor he was given to random speech when jjut to it. But at 
that moment Lena ran in dressed for clmrch, in her white frock 
and straw hat with blue ribbons. She threw her hands on Tod’s 
knee and burst out crying. 

Joe, 1 don’t want to go to church; 1 want Hugh. 

Quite a spasm of pain shot across his face, but he was very ten- 
der with her. In all ray life I had never seen Tod so gentle as he 
had been at moments during the last two days. 

“ Don’t cry, pretty one,” he said, pusbing the fair curls from her 
face. ” Go to cburch like a good little girl; perhaps we shall have 
found him by the time you come home.” 

” Hannah says he’s Ijdng dead somewhere.” 

‘‘Hannah’s nothing but a wicked woman,” savagely answered 
Tod ” Don’t you mind her.” 

But Lena would not be pacified, and kept on sobbing and crying, 
“ 1 want Hugh; 1 want Hugh.” 

Mrs Todhetley, who had come in then, drew her away and sat 
down with the child on her knee, talking to her in a low, soothing 

^°”^Lena dear, you know I wish you to go with Hannah to church 
this morning. ’And you will put papa’s money into the plate. «ee: 
it is a golden sovereign. Hannah must carry it, and you shall put 

^*^‘^'oh, mamma! will Hugh never come home again? Will he 
clio ^ ^ ^ 

Plush, Lena,” she said, as Tod bit his lip and gave his hair a 
dash backward. “ Shall 1 tell you something that sounds like a 
pretty story?” 


6 ^ 


CEABB KAVINE. 


Lena was always ready for a story, pretty or ugly, and her blue 
eyes were lifted to her mother’s briglitl}'' through the tears. At that 
moment she looked wonderfully like the portrait on the wall. 

“ Just now, dear, I was in my room upstairs, feeling very, veiy 
unhappy; I’m not sure but 1 was sobbing nearly as much as you 
Wf're just now. ‘ He wu'll never come back,’ i said to myself; ‘ he 
is lost to us forever.’ At that moment those sweet bells broke out, 
calling people to Heaven’s service, ana 1 don’t know why, Lena, 
but they seemed to whisper a great comfort to me. They seemed 
to say that Clod was over us all, and saw our trouble, and would 
heal it in His good time.” 

Lena stared a little, digesting what she could of the words. The 
tears were nowhere. 

” Will He send Hugh back?” 

” 1 can’t tell, darlinff. He can take care of Hugh, and bless him, 
and keep him, wherever he may be, and 1 know He icill. If He 
should have taken him to Heaven above the blue sky — oh then, 
Hugh must be very happy. He wiil be wu’lh the angels. Pie will 
see Jesus face to face; and you know how He loved little children. 
The hells seemed to say all this to me as 1 listened to them, Lena.” 

Lena went oft contented: we saw her skipping along by Han- 
nah’s side, who had on a new purple gown and staling red and green 
trimmings to her bonnet. Children are as changeable as a chameleon, 
sobbing one minute, laughing the next. Tod was standing now 
with his back to the window, and Mrs. Todhetley sat by the table, 
her long thin fingers supporting her cheek; very meek, very, very 
patient. Tod was thinking so as he glanced at her. 

” How you must hate me for this!” he said. 

” Oh, Joseph! Hate you?” 

” Tlie thing is all ray fault. A great deal has been my fault for 
a long while; all the unpleasantness and the misunderstanding.” 

She got up and took his hand timidly, as it she feared he might 
think it too great a liberty. ” It you can only understand me tor 
the tuture, Joseph; understand how I wish and try to make things 
pleasant lo you, I shall be tully repaid: to you most especially iu 
all the house, atter your father. I have ever striven and praved for 
it.” 

He answered nothing for the moment; his face was working a 
little, and he gave her fingers a grip that must have caused pain,"” 

“ H the worst comes of this, and Hugh never is amidst us again, 

1 will go over the seas in the wake of the villain Arne,” he said in 
a low, firm tone, ‘‘ and spare you the sight of me.” 

Tears began to trickle down her face. ‘‘Joseph, my dear— if 
you will let me call you so — this shall draw us near to each other, 
as we never might Inue been drawn without it. You shall not hear 
a word of reproach from me, or any word but love: there shall 
never be a thought of reproach iu my heart. I have had a great 
deal ot sorrow in my life, Joseph, and have learned patiently to bear, 
leaving all things to Heaven.” 

” And it Hugh is dead?” 

‘‘ What 1 said to Lena, 1 meant,” she softly whispered. ” If God 
has taken him he is with the angels, far happier than he .could be iu 
this world of care, though his lot were of the brightest,” 


CRABB RAVIN’B. 63 

The tears were running down her cheeks as she went out of 
the room. Tod stood still as a stone. 

“ She is made ot gold,” 1 whispered. 

” No, Jolinny. Of something better.” 

The sound of the bells died away. None of us Went to church; 
in the present excitement it would have been a farce. The squire 
had gone riding about the roads, sending his groom the opposite 
way. He telegraphed to the police at Worcester; saying, in the 
message, that these country officers were no better than dummies; 
and openly lamented at home that it had not happened at Dyke 
Manor, within the range of old Jones the constable. 

Tod disappeared with the last sound ot the bells. Just as the 
Pater’s head was full of the brick-fields, his was ot the Ravine; that 
he had gone off to beat it again 1 w^as sure. In a troirble such as 
this you want incessantly to be up and doing. Lena and Hannah 
came back from church, the child calling out tor Hugh: she wanted 
to tell him about the gentleman who bad preached in big white 
sleeves and pretty frills on his wrists. 

Two o’clock was the Sunday dinner-hour. Tod came in when it 
was striking. He looked dead-beat as he sat down to carve in bis 
fathei’s place. The sirloin ot beef was as good as usual, but only 
Lena seemed to think so. The little gobbler ate two servings, and 
a heap ot raspberry pie and cream. 

How it happened, 1 don’t know. 1 was just as anxious as any of 
them, and 3 '^et, in sitting under the mulberry-tree, I fell fast asleep, 
never waking till five. Mrs. Todhetley, always finding excuses 
for us, said it was worry and want ot proper rest. She was sitting 
close to the wu’ndow', her head leaning against it. The squire had 
not come home. Tod w^as somewhere about, she did not know 
where. 

I found him in the yard. Luke Mackintosh w^as harnessing the 
pony to the gig. Tod helping him in a state of excitement. Some 
man had come in with a tale that a tribe ot gypsies was discovered, 
encamped beyond the brick-fields, who seemed to have been there 
for a week past. Tod jumped to the conclusion that Hugh was 
concealed with them, and wms about to go off in search. 

‘‘ ill you come with me, Johnny? Luke must remain in case 
the squire rides in.” 

” Of course 1 will. I’ll run and tell Mrs. Todhetley.” 

” Stay where you are, you stupid muff. To excite her hopes, in 
the unc*ertainty, would be cruel. Get up.” 

Tod need not have talked about excited hopes. He was just 
three parts mad. Fancy his great strong lianas shaking as he took 
the reins! The pony dashed off in a fright with the cut he gave it, 
and brought us cleverly against the post ot the gate, breaking the 
near shaft. Over that^ hni lor the delay, Tod would have been cool 
as an orange. 

‘‘ The phaeton now, single horse,” he called out to Mackintosh. 

” \es, sir. Bob, or Blister?” 

Tod stamped his foot in a passion. “ As if it mattered! Blister; 
he is the more fiery of the two.” 

. ” 1 must get the harness,” said Mackintosh. ” It is in the yellow 
l^arn.” ^ . . . 


CRABB RAVINE. 


64 

Mackintosh went round on the run to gain the front barn; the 
harness, least used, was kept there, hung on the walls. Tod un- 
harnessed the pony, left me to lead him to the stable, and went after 
the man. In his state of impatience and his strength, he could 
have done the work of ten men. He met Mackintosh coming out 
of the bain, without the harness, but with a white face. Since he 
saw the ghost’s light on Friday night the man had been scared at 
shadows, 

“ There’s sum’at in there, master,” said he, his teeth chattering. 

‘‘ What?” roared Tod, in desperate anger. 

” There is, master. It’s like a faint tapping.” 

Tod dashed in, controlling his hands, lest they might take h’rench 
leave and strike Luke foi a coward. He was seeking the proper 
set of harness, when a knocking, faint and irregular, smote his ear. 
Tod turned to look, and thouglit it came from the staircase door. 
He w'ent forward and opened it. 

Lying at tlie foot of the staiis was Hugh. Hught Low, and 
weak, and faint, there he lay, his bine eyes only half opened, and 
his preity curls mingling WMtii the dust. 

“ Hugh! is it you, my darling?” 

Tod’s gasp was like a great cry. Hugh put up his little feeble 
hand, and a smile parted his lips. 

“ Ves, it’s me, Joe.” 

The riddle is easily solved. When sent back by me, Hugh saw^ 
Hannah in thefold-fard; she was, in point of fact, looking after him. 
In his fear, he stole round to liide in the shrubbery, and thence got 
to the front of the house, and ran away down the road. Seeing the 
front barn-door open, for it w^as when Luke Mackintosh was setting 
the corn, Hugh slipped in and hid behind the door. Luke went out 
with the first lot of corn, and the senseless child, hearing Tod’s 
voice outside, got into the place leading to the stairs, and shut the 
door. Luke, talking to Tod, who had stepped inside the barn, saw 
the door w'as shut and slipped the big outside bolt, never remember- 
ing that it was not he icho had shut it. Poor little Hugh, wdien 
their voices had died away, ran upstairs to get to the upper garnary, 
and found its door fastened. And there the child was shut up 
beyond i-each of call and hearing. The skylight in the roof, miles, 
as it seemed, above him, had its ventilator open. He had called and 
called; but his \oice must have been lost amidst the space of the 
barn. It was too weak to disturb a rat now. 

Tod took him up in his arms, tenderly as if he had been a new- 
born baby that he was hushing to the rest of death. 

“ Were you frightened, child?” 

”1 was till 1 heard the church-bells,” whispered Hugh. ”1 
don’t know how long it was— oh, a great while — and 1 had eat the 
biscuit Johnny gave me and been asleep. 1 wars not frightened 
then, Joe; 1 thought they’d come to me when church was over.” 

1 met the procession. What the dirty object might be in Tod’s 
arms was quite a mystery at first. Tod’s eyes were dropping tears 
upon it, and his breath was coming in great sobs. Luke brought 
up the rear a few yards behind, looking as it he’d never find "his 
senses again. 

” Oh, Tod I will he get over it?” 


CRABR RAVINE. 


65 


“Yes. Please God.’* 

“ Is he injured?” 

“No, no. Get out of my way, Johnny. Go to the mother now, 
if you like. Tell her he has only heen shut up in the barn and I’m 
coming in with him. The dirt’s nothine*; it was on him before.” 

Just as meek and gentle she stood as ever, the tears rolling down 
her lace, and a quiet joy in it. Tod brought him in, laying him 
across her knee as she sat on the sofa. 

“ There,” he said. “ He’ll be ail right when he has been washed 
and had something to eat.” 

“ God bless you, Joseph!” she whispered. 

Tod could say no more. He bent to kiss Hugh; lifted his face, 
and kissed the mother. And then he went rushing out with a great 
burst of emotion. 


0 


OUR VISIT 


A GREAT PUZZLE. 

1 . 

We went down from Oxford together, 1 and Tod and William 
Whitney, accompanying Miss Deveen and Helen and Anna Whitney, 
who had been there for a few days. Miss Deveen’s carriage was 
waiting ac the Paddington station; she got into it with Tod, and 
William and 1 followed in a cab with the luggage. Miss Deveen hud 
invited us all to sta}' with her. 

Miss Cattledon, the companion, with her tall, thin figure, her 
pinched-in waist and her creaking stays, stood ready to receive us 
when we reached the house. Miss Deveen held out her hand. 

“How have you been, Jemima? Taking care of yourself, 1 
hope!” 

” Quite well, thank you. Miss Deveen; and very glad to see you 
at home again,” returned Cattiedon. ‘‘This is my niece, Janet 
Carey.” 

A. slight, small girl, with smooth brown hair and a quiet face that 
looked as if it had just come out of some wasting illness, w’as hid- 
ing herself behind Cattledon. Miss Deveen said a tew pleasant 
words of welcome, and tooK her hand. The girl looked as shy and 
frightened as though we had all been a pack of gorillas. 

“ Thank you, ma’am; you are very kind,” she said, in a tremble; 
and her voice, 1 noticed, was low and pleasant. 1 like nice voices, 
whether in man or woman. 

” It wants but half an hour to dinner-time,” said Miss Deveen, 
untying the strings of her bonnet. ” Miss Cattledon, will you show 
these young friends of ours the rooms you have appropriated to 
them.” 

My room and Tod’s— two beds in it — was on the second floor; 
Helen and Anna had the best company room below, near Miss 
Deveen’s; Bill had a little one lower still, half-way up the first flight 
of stairs. Miss Cattledon’s room, we found out, was next to ours, 
and her niece slept with her. 

Tod threw himself full length on his counterpaiie— tired out, he 
said. Certain matters had not gone very smoothly for him at 
Oxford, and the smart remained. 

” You’ll be late, Tod,” 1 said, when 1 was ready. 

‘‘ Plenty of time, Johnny. 1 don't suppose 1 shall keep dinner 
waiting.” 

Miss Deveen stood at the door of the blue room when I went 

( 66 ) 


OUR VISIT. 


67 


down ; that pretty sitting-room, exclusively liers, that 1 remembered 
so well. She had on a purple silk gown, with studs ot pale yellow- 
topaz in its white lace front, studs every whit as beautiful as I he 
emeralds made free with by Sophie Chalk. 

“ Come in here, Johnny.” 

She was beginning to talk to me as we stood by the fire, when 
some one w'as heard to enter the inner room; Miss Deveen’s bed- 
chamber, which opened from this room as well as from the landing. 
She crossed over into it, and I heard Cattledon’s voice. 

‘‘ It is so very kind of you. Miss Deveen, to have allowed me to 
bring my niece here! Under the circumstances — with such a cloud 
upon her—” 

” She is quite welcome,” interrupted Miss Deveen’s voice. 

” Yes, 1 know that, 1 know it: and 1 could not go down without 
thanking you. I have told Lettice to take some lea up to her while 
we dine. She can come to the drawing-room afterward if you have 
no objection.” ■ 

” Why can’t she dine with us?” asked Miss Deveen. 

” Detter not,” said Cattledon. ” She does not expect it; and with 
so many at table — ” 

” Nonsense!” came Miss Deveen’s quick, decisive interruption. 
‘‘ Many at table! There are enough servants to wait on us, and 1 
suppose you have enouffh dinner. Go and bring her down.” 

Miss Deveen came back, holding out her hand tome as she crossed 
the room. The gong sounded as we went down to the drawing- 
room. They all came crowding in, Tod last ; and we went in to 
dinner. 

Miss Deveen, with her fresh and handsome face and her snow- 
white hair, took the head of the table. Cattledon, at the foot, a 
green velvet ribbon round her genteel throat, helped the soup. 
William Whitney sat on Miss Deveen’s right, 1 on her left. Janet 
Carey sat next to him— and this brought her nearly opposite me. 

!She had an old black silk on, with a white frill at the throat- 
very poor and plain as contrasted with the light gleaming silks ot 
Helen and Anna. But she had nice eyes; their color a light hazel, 
their expression honest and sweet. It was a pity she could not get 
some color into her wan face, and a little courage into her manner. 

After coffee we sat down in the drawing-room to a round game 
at cards, and then had some music; Helen playing first. Janet 
Carey was at the table, looking at a view in an album. I went up 
to her. 

Had 1 caught her staring at some native Indians tarred and feath- 
ered, she could not have given a worse jump. It might have been 
fancy, but 1 thought her face turned white. 

” Did 1 startle you. Miss Carey? 1 am very sorry.” 

” Oh, thank you— no. Every one is very kind. The truth is 
pausing a moment and looking at the view—” 1 knew the place in 
early life, and was lost in old memories. Past times and events con- 
nected with it came back to me. I recognized the place at once, 
though I was only ten years old when 1 left it.” 

” Places do linger in the memory in a singularly vivid manner 
sometimes. Especially those we have known when young,” 


68 


OUK VISIT. 


“ 1 can recognize every spot in this,” she said, gazing still at the 
album. ” And 1 have not seen it for fifteen years.” 

” Fifteen. 1 — 1 understood you to say you were ten years old 
when 3 mu left it.” 

” So 1 was. 1 am twenty-five now.” 

So much as that! So much older than any 6f us! 1 could hardly 
believe it. 

‘‘ 1 snould not have taken you for more than seventeen. Miss 
Carey.” 

” At seventeen 1 went out to get my own living,” she said, in a 
sad tone, but with a candor that 1 liked. ‘‘That is eight years 
ago.” 

Helen’s music ceased with a crash. Miss Deveen came up to Janet 
Carey. 

” Mj’- dear, 1 hear you can sing: your aunt tells me so. Will you 
sing a song to please me?” 

She was like a startled tawn: looking here, looking there, and 
turning white and red. But she rose at once. 

” 1 tvill sing it you wish it, madam. But my singing is only 
plain singing: just a tew old songs. 1 have never learned to sing.” 

“ The old soDgs are the best,” said Miss Deveen. “ Can you sing 
that sweet song ot all songs—* Blow, blow, thou wintery wind ’?” 

She went to the piano, struck the chords quietly, withoul any 
flourish or prelude, and began the first note. 

Oh, the soft, sw^et, musical voice that broke upon us! Not a 
powerful voice, that astounds the nerves like an electric macliine; 
but one ot that intense, thrilling, plaintive harmony which brings a 
mist to the eye and a throb to the heart. Tod backed against the 
wall to look at her: Bill, who had taken up the cat, let it drop 
through his knees. 

Vou might have heard a pin drop when the last words died away: 
“As friends remembering not.” Miss Deveen broke the silence: 
praising her and telling her to go on again. The girl did not seem 
to liave the least notion ot refusing: she appeared to have lived 
under submission. I think Miss Deveen would have liked her to go 
on forever. 

“ The wonder to me is that you can remember the accompani- 
ment to so many songs without your notes,” cried Helen Whitney. 

“ 1 do not know my notes. 1 can not play.” 

“ Not know 5 mur notes!” 

“ 1 never learned them. 1 never learned music. I just play 
some few chords by ear that will harmonize with the songs. That 
is why my singinsr is so poor, so different from other people’s. 
Where 1 have been living they say it is not worth listening to.” 

She spoke in a meek, deprecating manner. 1 had heard of self- 
depreciation; this was an instance ot it. Janet Carey was one of 
the humble ones. 

The next day was Good Friday. We went to church under low- 
ering clouds, and came home again to luncheon. Cattledon’s face 
was all vinegar when we sat down to it. 

“There’s that woman down-stairs again!— that Ness!” she ex- 
claimed with acrimony. “ Making herself at home with the serv- 
ants!” 


OUR VISIT. . 69 

** I’m glad to hear it,” smiled Miss Deveen. ” She’ll get some 
dinner, poor thing.” 

Cattledon snifted. ” It’s not a month since she was here be/ore.” 

” And I'm sure if she came every week she’d be welcome to a 
meal,” spoke Miss Deveen. ” Ah, now, young ladies,” she went 
on in a jokina; tone, “ if you wanted your fortunes told, Mrs. Ness 
is the one to do it.” 

” Does she tell the truth?” asked Helen, eagerly. 

” Oh, very true, of course,” laughed Miss Deveen. ” She’ll 
promise you a rich husband apiece. Dame Ness is a good woman, 
and has had many misfortunes. 1 have known her through all of 
them.” 

” And helped her too,” resentfully put in Cattledon. 

‘‘ But does she really tell fortunes?” pursued Helen. 

*‘ She thinks she does,” laughed Miss Deveen. ” She told mine 
once— many a year ago.” 

” And did it come true?” 

” Well, as far as 1 remember, she candidly confessed that there 
was not much to tell— that my life would he prosperous but un- 
eventful.” 

” 1 don't think, begging your pardon. Miss Deveen, that it is 
quite a proper subject for young people,” struck in Cattledon, 
drawing up her thin red neck. 

” Dear me, no,” replied Miss Deveen, still laughing a liltle. And 
the subject dropped, and we finished luncheon. 

The rain had come on, a regular downpour. We went into the 
breakfast-room; though why it was called that 1 don’t know, since 
breakfast was never taken there. It was a fair sized, square room, 
buiit out at the back, and gained by a few stairs down from the 
hall and a passage. Somehow people prefer plain rooms to grand 
ones for every-day use; perhaps that was why we all took a liking 
to this room, lor it was plain enough. An old carpet on the floor, 
chairs covered with tumbled chintz, and always a good blazing fire 
in the grate. Miss Deveen would go in there to write her business 
letters— when she had any to write; or to cut out sewing with Cat- 
tledon for the house- maids. An old-fashioned secretary stood against 
the wall, in which receipts and other papers were kept. The French 
window opened to the garden. 

“Pour, pour, pour! It’s going to be wet for the rest of the 
day,” said Tod, gloomily. 

Cattledon came in, equipped for church in a long brown cloak, a 
pair of clogs in ber hand. Did none of us intend to go, she asked. 
Nobody answered. The weather outside was not tempting. 

” You must come, Janet Carey,” she said very tartly, angry with 
us all, 1 expect. “ Go and put on your things.” 

” No,” interposed Miss Deveen. ‘‘It would riot be prudent for 
your niece to venture out in this rain, Jemima.” 

‘‘ The church is only over the way.” 

“ But consider the illness she has but just recovered from. Let 
her stay in-doors.” .. ^ 

Cattledon went off without further opposition, Janet kneeling 
down unasked to put on her clogs, and then opening her umbrella 


70 


OUR VISIT. 


for her in the hall. Janet did not come in again. Miss Deveen 
went out to sit with a sick neighbor; so we were alone. 

“ What a cranky old thina: that (Jattledon is!” cried Bill, throw- 
ing down his newspaper. She’d have walked that sick girl off in 
the wet, you see.” 

‘‘ How old is Catlledon?” asked Tod. “ Sixty?” 

” Oh, you stupid fellow 1” exclaimed Helen, looking up from the 
stool on the hearth-rug, where she was sitting, nuising her knees. 
“ Cattledoi! sixty! Wny, she can’t be above forty-tive.” 

It was disrespectful, no doubt, but we all called her plain “ Cat- 
tledon ” behind her back, putting no handle to her name 

” That’s rather a queer girl, that niece,” said Tod. ” She won’t 
speak to one; she’s like a frightened hare.” 

“ I like her,” said Anna. ” 1 feel very sorry for her. She gives 
one the idea of iii‘:ving been always put upon; and she looks dread- 
fully ill ” 

‘‘"l should say she has been kept in some Blue Beard’s cupboard, 
among a lot of hanging wives that have permanently scared her,” 
remarked Bill. 

” It’s Oattledon,” said Tod; ” it’s not the wives. She pnts upon 
the girl and frightens her senses out of her. Cattledon’s a cross- 
grained, two-edged — ” 

He had to shut up; Janet Carey was coming in again. For about 
five minutes nobody spoke. There seemed to be nothing to say. 
Bill played at ball with Miss Deveen ’s red pen-wiper; Anna began 
turning over the periodicals; Helen gave the cat a box when it 
would have jumped on her knee. 

“Well, this is lively !” cried Tod. “Nothing on earth to do; 1 
wonder why the rain couldn’t have kept off till to-morrow?” 

“ 1 say,” wliispered Helen, treason sparkling from her bright 
eyes, “ let us have up that old fortune teller! I’ll go and ask Let- 
tice.” 

She whisked out of the room, shutting the tail of her black silk 
dress in the door, and called Lett ice. A. few minutes, and Mrs. 
Ness came in, courtesying. A stout old lady in a cotton shawl and 
broad- bordered cap with a big red bow tied in front. 

“ 1 say, Mrs. Ness, can you tell our fortunes?” cried Bill. 

“ Bless you, young gentlefolks, I’ve told a many in my time. I’ll 
tell yours, it you like to bid me, sir.” 

“ Do the cards tell true?” 

“ 1 believe they does, sir. Fve knowed ’em to tell over true now 
and again — more’s the pity!’ 

“ Why do you say more’s the pity?” asked Anna. 

“ When they’ve foretelled bad tilings, my sweet, pretty young 
lady. Death, and what not.” 

“ But how it must frighten the people who are having them 
told!” cried Anna. 

“ Well, to speak the truth, young gentlefolks, when it’s very bad 
1 generally softens it over to ’em— say the cards is cloudy, or some- 
’at o’ that,” was the old woman’s candid answer. “ It don’t do to 
make folks uneasy.” 

“ Look here,” said Helen, who had been to find the cards. “ I 
should not like to hear it if it’s anything bad.” 


OUR VISIT. 


71 


** Ah, my dear young lady, 1 don’t tliink you need fear any but a 
good fortune, with that handsome face and them bright eyes of 
yours,” returned the old dame — who really seemed to speak, not in 
flattery, but from the bottom of her heart. ” 1 don’t know what 
the young lords ’ud be about to pass you by.” 

Helen liked that; she was just as vain as a peacock, and thought 
no little of herself. ‘‘ Who’ll begin?” asked she. 

” Begin yoursef, Helen,” said Tod. ” it’s sure to be something 
good.” 

So she shuffled and cut the cards as directed; and the old woman, 
sitting at the table, spread them out before her, talking a little bit 
to herself, and pointing with her finger here and there. 

‘‘ You’ve been upon a journey lately,” she said, ” and you’ll 
soon be going upon another.” I give only the substance of what 
the old lady said, but it was interspersed freely with her own re- 
marks. ‘‘ You’ll have a present before many days is gone; and 
you’ll — stay, there’s that blacu card— you'll hear of somebody that’s 
sick. And— dear me! there’s an offer for you— an offer of mar- 
jiage— but it won’t come to anything. Well, now, shuffle and cut 
again, please.” 

Helen did so. This was repeated three times in all. But, so far 
as we could understand it, her future seemed to be very unevent- 
ful— to have nothing in it -something like Miss Deveen’s. 

” It’s a brave fortune as 1 thought, young lady,” cried Mrs. Ness. 
” No trouble or care in store for you.” 

‘‘But there’s nothing,” said Helen, too intently earnest to mind 
any of us. ‘‘ When am 1 to be married?” 

‘‘ Well, ray dear, the cards haven’t told so much this time. 
There’ll be an offer, as 1 said— and 1 think a bit of trouble over it; 
but—” 

‘‘ But you said it would not come to anything,” interrupted Helen. 

‘‘Well, and no more it won’t; leastways, it seemed so by the 
cards; and it seemed to bring a bother with it— old folks pulling 
one way maybe, and young ’uns the other. You’ll have to wait for 
the right gentleman, my pretty miss.” 

“What stupid cards they arel” cried Helen, in dudgeon. “ I 
dare say it’s all rubbish.” 

“Any ways, you’ve had nothing bad,” said the old woman. 
“ And that’s a priceless consolation.” 

“ It’s your turn now, Anna.” 

“ I won’t have mine told,” said Anna. “ I’m afraid.” 

“ Oh, you senseless donkey!” cried Bill. “ Afraid of a pack of 
cards!”’ So Anna laughed, and began. 

“ Ah, there’s more here,” said the old woman as she laid them 
out. “ You are going through some great ceremony not long first. 
See here— crowds of people— and show. Is it a great ball, 1 won- 
der?” 

“ It may be my presentation,” said Anna. 

“ And here’s the wedding-ring!— and there’s the gentleman! See! 
he’s turning toward you; a dark man it is; and he’ll be very fond 
of you, too!— and — ” 

“Oh, don’t go on,” cried Anna, in terrible confusion as she 
heard all this, and caught Tod’s eye, and saw Bill on the broad. 


n 


OUR VISIT. 


laugh. “Don’t, pray don’t; it must be all nonsense, “ she went 
on. blushing redder than a rose. 

“ But it’s true,” steadily urged the old lady. There the wed- 
ding is. I don’t say it’ll he soon; perhaps not for some }jars; but 
come it will in its proper time. And you’ll live in a fane big house, 

and— stay a bit— you’ll have— ” . t, 

Anna, half laughing, half crying, and her face ledder than Dame 
Ness's fiery bow, pushed the cards together. ‘ I won t be told any 

more,” she said; ‘‘ it must be all a pa^k of nonsense. 

“ Of course it is,” added Helen, decisively. ‘‘ And wdiy couldn t 
you have told me all that, Mrs. Ness? 

“ Why, my dear, sweet young lady, it isn’t me that tells; it s the 


” 1 don't oeiievc v, (joes to while away a wet and wretched 

afternoon. Now, Miss Caio^ »» 

Miss Carey looked up from her bod- ^vith a start. ‘‘ Oh, not me! 
Please, not me!” 

‘‘Not you! — the ideal” cried Helen. “Why, of o.ourse you 
must. 1 and my sister have had our turn, and you must 
yours.” 


As if further objection were out of the G[uestion, Miss Carey stood 
timidly up by the table and shuffled the cards that Dame Ness 
handed to her. When they were spread out, the old w^oman looked 
at the cards longer than she had looked for either Helen or Anna, 
then at the girl, then at the cards again. 

“There has been sickness; and trouble: and distress,” she said 
at length. “ And — and— ’tain’t over yet. 1 see a dark lady and a 
fair man: they’ve been in it, somehow. Seems to ha’ been a great 
trouble — ” putting the tips of her forefingers upon tw^o cards. 
“ Here you are, you see, right among it ” — pointing to the Queen 
of Hearts. “ 1 don’t like the look of it. And there’s money mixed 
up in the sorrow—” 

A low, shudaering cry. 1 happened to be looking from the win- 
dow at the moment, and turned to see Jaaet Carey with hands up- 
litted and a face of imploring terror. The cry came from lier. 

“Oh don’t, don’t! don’t tell any more!” she implored. “1 — 
was — not— guilty. ” 

Down w'ent her voice by little and little, down tell her hands; and 
dowm dropped she on the chair behind her. The next moment she 
w’as crying and sobbing. We stood round like so many helpless 
simpletons, quite put dowm by this unexpected interlude. Old 
Dame Ness stared, slowly shuffling the cards from hand to hand, 
and could not make it out. 


“ Here, I’ll have my fortune told next, Mother Ness,” said Bill 
Whitney, really out of good nature to tlie girl, that she might be 
left unobserved to recover herself. “ Mind you promise me a good 
one.” 


“ And so 1 will then, young gentleman, if the cards ’ll let me,” 
was the hearty answer. “ Please shuffle ’em well, sir, and then cut 
’em into three.” 

Bill was shuffling with all his might when we heard the front door 
open, and Cattledon’s voice in the hall. “ Oh, by George, 1 say, 


OUR VISIT. • Y3 

what’s to be done?” cried he. “ She’ll be fit to smother us. That 
old parson can’t have given thftm a sermon.” 

Fortunately she stayed on the door-mat to take oft her clogs. 
Dame Kess was scufiied down the kitchen stairs, and Bill hid the 
cards away in his pocket. 

And until then it had not occurred to us that it might not he quite 
the right thing to go in for fortune telling on Good Friday. 


11 . 

On Easter Tuesday William W’hitney and Tod went off to Whit- 
ney Hall for a few daj's: Sir John wrote for them. In the afternoon 
Miss Deveen took Helen in the carriage to make calls; and the rest 
of us went to the Colosseum, in the Regent’s Park. CaltJedon 
rather fought against the expedition, but Miss Deveen did not listen 
to her. None of us— except herself— had seen it before: and 1 
know that 1, for one, was delighted with it. 

The last scene of the performance was over. If 1 remember 
aright, at this distance of time, it was the representation of the fall- 
ing of an avalanche on a Swiss village, to bury it forever in the 
snow; and we saw the little lighted church to which the terrified 
inhabitants were Hying for succor, and heard the tinkling of its 
alarm-bell. As wm pushed out with the crowd, a policeman ap- 
peared in our way, facing us, a tall, big, fierce-looking man; not to 
impede the advance of the throng, but to direct its movements. 
Janet Carey seized hold of my arm, and 1 turned to look at her. 
She stood something like a block of stone; her face white with ter- 
ror her eyes fixed on the policeman. 1 could not get her on, and 
we were stopping those behind. Naturally the man’s eyes fell on 
her and with evident recognition. 

“ Oh, it’s you here, is it, Miss Carey!” _ 

The tone was not exactly insolent; but it was cool and signifi- 
cant wanting in respect. When 1 would have asked him how he 
dared so to address a young lady, the words were arrested by Janet. 

1 thought she had gone mad. , , tv i . 

” Oil, get me away, Mr. Ludlow, for Heaven s sakel Don t let 
him take me! Oh what shall 1 do? wdiat shall 1 do?” 

“ 'What you’ve got to do is to get for’ard out o’ this here passage 
and not block up the way,” struck in the policeman. ‘‘Ibain’t 
after you now; so you’ve no call to be afeared this time. Pass on 

that way, sir.” . . 

1 drew her onward, and in half a minute we were in the open 
air clear of the throng. Cattledon, who seemed to have understood 
noi’hing, except that we had stopped the way, shook Janet by the 
arm in anger, and asked what had come to her. „ . . ,, , 

“ It w'as the same man, aunt, that Mrs. Knox called m,^^ she 
o-asped. 1 thought he had cc me to London to look for me. 

” Miss Cattlcdon’s answer was to keep hold of her arm, and whirl 
her along toward the outer gates. Anna and 1 followed in wonder. 

“ What is it all, Johnny?” she whispered, 

‘‘ Goodness knows, Anna. 1 — ” 

Cattledon turned her head, asking me to go on and secure a cab. 


OUK VISIT. 


74 

Janet was helped into it and sat back with her eyes closed, a shiver 
takiug her every now and then. 

Janet appeared at dinner, and seemed as well as usual. In the 
evening Helen tore the skirt ot her thin dress: and before she was 
aware, the girl was kneeling by the side of her chair with a needle 
and thread, beginning to mend it. 

“ You are very kind,” said Helen heartily, when she saw what 
Janet was doing. 

‘‘ Oh no,” answered Janet, with an upward, self-depreciatory 
glance from her nice eyes. 

But soon after that, when we were describing to Helen and Miss 
Deveen the sights at the Colosseum, and the silence of the buried 
village after the avalanche had fallen, Janet was taken with an 
ague St. Thfi very chair shook; it seemed that she must fall out of 
it. Anna ran to hoid '^er. Miss Deveen gf>t up in consternation. 

“ That Colosseum has been top much for her: there’s nothing so 
fatiguing as sight-seeii]g. 1 did wiong in letting Janet go, as she 
is still weak from her illness. Perhaps she has taken cold.” 

Ringing the bell. Miss Deveen told George to inaKe some hot wine 
and water. When it was brought in, she made Janet drink it, and 
sent her upstairs to bed, marshaled by Cattledon. 

The next morning, Wednesday, 1 was dressing in the sunshine 
that streamed in at the bedroom windows, when a loud hulla-balloo 
was set up below, enough to startle the king and all his men. 

“Thieves! robbers! inurdei!” 

Dashing to the door, 1 looked over the balustrades. The shrieks 
and calls came from Lettice Lane, who was stumbling up the stairs 
from the hall. Cattledon opened her dooi in her night-cap, saw me, 
and shut it again with a bang. 

“Murder! robbers! thieves!” shrieked Lettice. 

“But what is it, Lettice?” 1 cried, leaping down. 

“ Oh, Mr. Johnny, the house is robbed! — and w^e might just as 
well all have been murdered in our beds!” 

Everybody was appearing on the scene. Miss Deveen came fully 
dressed— she was often up before other people; Cattledon arrived 
in a white petticoat and shawl. The servants were running up 
from the kitchen. 

Thieves liad broken in during the night. The (so-called) break- 
fast room at the back presented a scene of indescribable confusion. 
Everything in it was turned topsy-turvy; the secretary had been 
ransacked; the glass doors stood open to the garden. 

It seemed that Lettice, in pursuance of her morning’s duties, had 
gone to the room, and found it in this state. Lettice was of the 
excitable order, and went into shrieks. She stood now, sobbino* 
and shaking, as she gave her explanation: 

“ V\'hen I opened the door and saw the room in this pickle, the 
window standing open, my very blood seemed to curdle within me. 
For all 1 knew the thieves might have done murder. Just look at 
the place, ma’am! — look at your secretarjM” 

It’s what we were all looking at. The sight was as good as mov- 
ing house. Chairs and footstools lay upside down, thetr chintz cov- 
ers untied and flung oft: the heartli-rug was under the table; books 
were open, periodicals scattered about; two pictures had been taken 


OUR VISIT. 


76 


from the wall and lay face downward; every ornament was moved 
from the mantel-piecre. The secretary stood open ; all its papers had 
been taken out, opened, and lay in a heap on the floor; and Janet 
Carey's well-stocked work-box was turned bottom upward, its con- 
tents having rolled anywhere. 

“ This must be your woik, George,” said Miss Cattledon, turn- 
ing on the servant-man with a grim frown, 

“ Mine, ma’am!” he answered, amazed at the charge. 

“ Yes, yours,” repeated Cattledon. ” You could not have fast- 
ened the shutters last night; and that is how the thieves have got in.” 

” But 1 did, ma’am. I fastened them just as usual.” 

“ Couldn’t be,” said Cattiedon decisively, who had been making 
her way over the debris to examine the shutters. ” They have not 
been forced in any way: they liave simply been opened. The win- 
dow also.” 

” And neither window nor shutters could be opened from the 
outside without force,” remarked Miss Deveen. ”1 fear, George, 
you must have forgotten this room when you shut up last night.” 

” Indeed, ma’am, 1 did not forget it,” was the resf ecttul answer. 
” 1 assure you 1 bolted the window and barred the shutters as 1 al- 
ways do,” 

Janet Carey, standing in mute wonder like the rest of us, testified 
to this. ” AVhen I came in here last night to get a needle and 
thread to mend Miss Whitney’s dress, 1 am sure the shutters were 
shut: 1 noticed that they were.” . , 

Caltledon would not listen. She had taken up her owri opinion of 
George’s neglect, and sharply told Janet not to be so positive. Janet 
looked frightfully white and wan this morning, worse than a ghost. 

‘ Oh, ray goodness!” cried Helen \\hitney, appearing on the 
scene. ” If ever 1 saw such a thing!” 

” 1 never did— in all my life,” cried Cattledon. 

‘‘ Have you lost any valuables from the secretary, Miss Deveen? 

‘‘My dear Helen, there were no valuables in the secretary to 
lose ” was Miss Deveen’s answer. ‘‘ Sometimes 1 keep money in 
it— a little, but last night there happened to be none. Of course the 
thieves could not know that, and must have been greatly disap- 
pointed. It they did not come in thiough the window— why, they 
must have got in elsewhere.” , . , , j ^ 

Miss Deveen spoke in a dubious tone, that too plainly showed her 
own doubts on the point. George felt himself and his word reflect- 

I indeed forgotten this window last nijrht, ma’am — though 
for me to do such a thing seems next door to impossible -1 would 
confess it at once. 1 can be upan my oath, ma’am, if put to it, that 

1 made all secure here at dusk.” ^ 

‘‘ Tlien, George, you had better look to your other doors and 
windows,” was the reply of his mistress. 

The other doors and windows were looked to: but no trace could 
be found of how the thieves got in. Yfter breakfast, we succeeaed 
in putting the room tolerably straight. The letters and bills took 
most time, for every one was lying open. And af er 
done, Miss Deveen came to the conclusion that nothing had been 

taken. 


76 


OUR VISIT. 


“ Their object must have been money,” she observed. “ It is a 
^rood thing 1 happened to carry my cash-box upstairs yesterday. 
Sometimes 1 leave it here in the secretary.” 

” And was much in it?” one of us asked. 

‘‘ Not very much. More, though, than one cares to lose: a little 
gold and a bank- note.” 

” A bank-note!” echoed Janet, repeating the words quickly. ” Is 
it safe?— are you sure, ma’am, the note is safe?” 

‘‘ Well, 1 conclude it is,” answered Miss Deveen with composure. 
** 1 saw the cash-box before I came down this morning. 1 did not 
look inside it.” 

” Oh, but you bad better look,” urged Janet, betraying some ex- 
ciiemtu!. >i'h Suppose it should be gone! Can I look, ma’am?” 

” What nonsen&V'^hl^olaimed Helen. ” If the cash-box is safe, 
the money must be safe ms.’:!?. The thieves did not go into Miss 
Deveen’s room, Janet Carey.” ^ . 

The servants wanted the police called ih; b'.^t their mistress saw' 
no necessity for it. Nothing had been carried on, she said, and 
therefore she should take no further trouble. Her private opinion 
was that George, in spite of his assertions, must have forgotten the 
window. 

It seemed a curious thing that the thieves had not visited other 
rooms. Unless, indeed, the door of this one had been locked on the 
outside, and they were afraid to risk the noise of forcing it; and no 
one could teP whether the key had been turned or not. George had 
the plate-basket in his bed-chamber; but on the sideboard in (he 
dining-room stood a silver tea-caddy and a small silver w’aiter: how 
was it they had not walked off with these two articles? Or, as the 
cook said, why didn’t they rifle her lardei? She had various templ- 
ing things in it, including a fresh-boiled ham. 

” Janet Carey has been ill all the afternoon,” observed Anna, 
when 1 and Helen got home before dinner, for we had been out with 
Miss Deveen. ”1 think she feels frightened about the thieves, for 
one thing.” 

‘‘Ill for nothing!” returned Helen slightingly. ‘‘ Why should 
she be frightened any more than we are? The thieves did not hurt 
her. 1 might just as well say 1 am ill.” 

‘‘ But she lias been really ill, Helen. She has a shivering fit one 
minute and is sick the next. Caltledon says she must have caught 
cold yesterday, and is cross with her tor catching it.” 

“Look here,” said Helen, lowering her voice. *‘l can’t get it 
out of my head that that old fortune-teller must have had to do with 
it. She must have seen the secretary and may have taken note of 
the window fastenings. 1 am in a state over it: as you both know, 
it was 1 wdio had her up.” 

Janet did not come dowm until after dinner. She was pale and 
quiet, but not less ready than ever to do what she could for every- 
body. Helen had brought home some ferns to— transfer, 1 think 
she called it. Janet at once offered to help her. The process in- 
volved a lame washhand-basin full of water, and Miss Deveen sent 
the two girls into the breakfast- parlor, not to make a mess in the 
drawing-room. 

‘‘ Well, my dears,” said Miss Deveen, when she had read the 


OUR VISIT. 


77 


chapter before bed-time, “ 1 hope you will all sleep well to-night, 
and that we shall be undisturbed by thieves. Not that they disturbed 
us last night,” she added, laughing. Considering all things, 
I’m sure they were as polite and considerate thieves as we could 
wish to have to do with.” 

Whether the others slept well 1 can not say: I know 1 did. So 
well that 1 never woke at all until the same cries from Lettice dis- 
turbed the house as on the previous morning. The thieves had been 
in again. 

Down-stairs we went, as quickly as some degree of dressing al- 
lowed, and found the breaktast-parlor all contusion, the servants all 
consternation: the window open as before; the turniture turned 
about, the ornaments and pictures moved from their places, the 
books scattered, the papers of the secretary lying unfolded in a heap 
on the carpet, and a pair of era bioidered slippers of Helen Whit- 
ney’s Ijdng in the washhand-basin of water. 

” What an extraordinary thing!” exclaimed Miss Deveen, while 
the rest of us stood in silent amazement. 

Lettice’s tale was the same as the previous one. Upon proceed- 
ing to the room to put it to rights, she found it thus, and its shutters 
and glass doors wide open. There was no trace, except here, of the 
possible entrance or exit of thieves: all other fastenings were secure 
as they had been left overnight; other rooms had not been dis- 
turbed; and, more singular than all, nothing appeared to have been 
taken. What could the thieves be seeking for? 

” Shall you call in the police now, ma’am?” asked Cattledon, 
her tone implying that they ought to have been called in before. 

” Yes, 1 shall,” emphatically replied Miss Deveen. 

” Oh!” shrieked Helen, darting in, after making a hasty and im- 
promptu toilet, ” look at my new slippers!” 

After finishing the ferns last night they had neglected to send the 
basin away. The slippers were rose-colored, worked with white 
flow'ers in floss silk; and the bits of loose green from the ferns 
floated over them like green weeds on a pond. Helen had bought 
them w'hen we were out yesterday. 

*• My beautiful slippers!” lamented Helen. ” 1 wish to goodness 
1 had not fogotten to take them upstairs. What wicked thieves 
they must be! They ought to be hung.” 

” It’s to know, mum, whether it was thieves,” spoke the cook. 

Why, what else can it have been, cook?” asked Miss Deveen. 

” Mum, 1 don’t pretend to say. I’ve knowed cats do queer 
things. We’ve got two on 'em— the old cat and her kitten.” 

“Did you ever know cats unlock a secretary and take out the 
papers, cook?” returned Miss Deveen, 

“ Well no, mum. But, on the other hand, 1 never knowed 
thieves break into a house two nights running, and both times go 
away empty-handed.” ^ 

The argument was unanswerable. Unless the thieves had been 
disturbed on each night, how was it they had taken nothing? 

Miss Deveen locked the door upon the room just as it w'as; and 
after breakfast sent George to the nearest police-station. While he 
was gone 1 was alone in the dining-room, stooping down to hunt 


OUR VISIT. 


78 

for a book in the lowest shelf of the book-case, when Janet Carey 
came in followed by Cattledon. I suppose the table-cover hid me 
from them, for Cattledon began to blow her up. 

“ One would think you were a troubled ghost, shaking and shiver- 
ing in that way, first upstairs and then down! The police coming! 
— what if they are? They are not coming after you this time. 
There’s no money missing now.” 

Janet burst into tears. “Oh, aunt, why do you speak so to me? 
It is as though you believed me guilty!” 

“Don’t be a simpleton, Janet,” rebuked Cattledon in a softer 
tone. “ If 1 did not know you were not, and could not be, guilty, 
sbonld 1 have brought you here under Miss Deveen’s roof? What 
vexes me so is to see you look as tliough you were guilty — 

with your white face, and rour hysterics, and youi trembling hands 
and lips. Get a little spint into yourseH, child; the police won’t 
harm you.” 

Catching up the keys from the table, she went out again, /eavJpg 
Janet subbing. 1 stood forw^ard. She started when she saw^ me, 
and tried to dry her eyes. 

“1 am *sorry. Miss Carey, that all this bother is aflecting you. 
Why are you so sad?” 

“ 1 — have gone through a great deal of trouble lately; — and been 
ill,” she answered, witn hesitation, arresting her sobs. 

“ Can 1 do anything for you? — help you in any way?” 

“ You are very kind, Mr. Ludlow; you have been kind to me all 
along. There’s nothing any one can do. Sometimes 1 wish 1 
could die.” 

“Die!” 

“ There is so much unhappiness in the world!” 

George’s voice was heard in the hall with the policeman. Janet 
vanished. But whether it was through the floor or out at the door, 
1 declare 1 did not see then, and don’t quite know to this day. 

I and Cattledon were allowed to assist at the conference between 
Miss Deveen and the policeman: a dark man with a double chin 
and stripes on his coat sleeve. After hearing particulars, and ex- 
amining the room and the mess it was in, he inquired how many 
servants were kept, and whether Miss Deveen had confidence in 
them. She told him the number, and said she had confidence in 
all. 

He went into the kitchen, put what questions he pleased to the 
servants, looked at the fastenings of the doors generally, examined 
the outside of the window and walked about the garden. George 
called him Mr. Stone— which appeared to be his name. Mr. Stone 
had nothing of a report to bring Miss Deveen. 

“It’s one of two thinp, ma’am,” he said. “Either this has 
been done by somebody in your own house; or else the neighbors 
are playing tricks upon you. 1 can’t come to any conclusion. The 
case is peculiar, you see, in so far as that nothing has been stolen.” 

“ It is very peculiar indeed,” returned Miss Deveen. 

“ 1 should have said — 1 should feel inclined to say — that the cul- 
prit is some one in the house — ” 

“ it’s the most unlikely thing in the world, that it should have 


OUli VISIT. 


19 

been anybody in the house,” struck in IMiss Deveen, not allowing 
him to go on. ” To suspect any of the young people who are visit- 
ing me, would be simply an insult. And my servants would no 
more play the trick than 1 or Miss Cattledon would play it.” 

” Failing in-doors then, we must look out,” said Mr. Stone, after 
listening patiently. ” And that brings up more difficulty, ma’am. 
For 1 confess 1 don’t see how they could get the windows and shut- 
ters open from the outside, and leave no marks of damage.” 

‘‘The fact of the window and shutters being wide open each 
morning, shows how they got out.” 

” Just 80 ,” said Mr. Slone; “ but it does not show how they got 
in. Of course there’s the possibility that they managed to secrete 
themselves in the house beforehand.” 

” Yesterday 1 thought (hat might have been the case,” remarked 
Miss Deveen; ” to day 1 do not think so. It seems that, after what 
occurred, my servants were especially cautious to keep their doors 
and windows not only closed but bolted all day yesterday, quite 
barring the possibility of any one’s stealing in. Except, of course, 
down the chimneys.” 

Mr. Stone laughed. ” They’d bring a lot of soot with ’em that 
way.” 

” And spoil my hearth-rugs. No; that was not the way of en- 
trance.” 

” Then we come to the question — did one of the servants get up 
and admit ’em?” 

. ” But that would be doubting my servants still, you see. It really 
seems, Mr. Stone, as though you could not help me.” 

” Before saying wdiether 1 can or 1 can’t, 1 should be glad, 
ma’am, to have a conversation with you alone,” was the unex- 
pected answer. 

So we left him with Miss Deveen. Cattledon ’s stays appeared to 
resent it, for they creaked alarmingly in the hall, and her voice was 
tart. 

” Perhaps the man wants to accuse you or me, Mr. Johnny!” 

We knew later, after the upshot came, what it was he did want; 
and 1 may as w^ell state it at once. Stone had made up his mind to 
watch that night in the garden; but he wished it kept secret from 
everybody, except Miss Deveen herself, and he charged her strictly 
not to mention it^ ” How will it serve jmu. it, as you say, they do 
not come in that way?” she had asked. ‘‘But the probability is 
they come out that way,” he answered. ‘‘ At any rate, they fling 
the doors open, and 1 shall be there to drop upon them.” 

Janet Carey grew very ill as the day went on. Leitice offered to 
sit up with her, in case she wanted anything in the night. Janet 
had just the appearance of somebody worn out. 

We went to bed at the usual time, quite unconscious that Mr. 
Stone had taken up his night-watch in the summer-house at the 
end of the garden. The nights were very bright just then; the moon 
at about the full. Nothing came of it: neither the room nor the 
window was disturbed. 

” They scented my watch,” remarked the officer in private next 
morning to Miss Deveen. ‘‘ However, ma’am, 1 don’t think it 


80 


OUR VISIT. 


likely you will be troubled again. Seeing you’ve put it into our 
bands, Ihey’ll not dare to risk further annoyance.” 

1 suppose not — it they know it,” dubiously spoke Miss Deveen. 

He shook his head. ‘‘ They know as much as that, ma’am. De- 
pend upon it, their little game is over.” 

Mr. Stone was mistaken. On tlie following morning, the break- 
ast-room was found by Lettice in exactly the same state of confu- 
sion. The furniture dragged about, the ornaments moved from the 
mantel-piece, the bills and papers opened, as before. 3Iiss Deveen 
was very silent over it, and said in the hearing of the servants that 
she should have to carry the grievance to Scotland Yard. 

thought she set out to do it. The carriage came 
to the door in* the^course of tn^-morning. Miss Deveen, who was 
ready dressed, passed over the others, and ask^d me to go with her. 

‘‘ bo you know what I’m going to do, Johnny she 
as George took his place on the box and the fat old coachman gave 
the word to his horses. 

‘‘ 1 think 1 do. Miss Deveen. We are going to Scotland Yard.” 

‘‘Not a bit of it, Johnny,” she said. ‘‘My opinion hag come 
around to Mr. Policeman Stone’s— that we must look in-doors for 
the disturber. 1 have brought 3mu out with me to talk of it. It is 
a great mystery— for 1 thought 1 could have trusted the servants 
and all the rest of you with my life.” 

It was a mystery — and no mistake. 

‘‘A great mystery,” repeated Miss Deveen; ‘‘ a puzzle; and 1 
want you to help me to unravel it, Johnny. 1 intend to sit up to- 
night in the breakfast-parlor. But not being assured of my nerves 
while watching in solitude for thieves, or ghosts, or what not, 1 
wish you to sit up with me.” 

” Oh, 1 shall like it. Miss Deveen.” 

‘‘ 1 have heard of houses being disturbed before in a similar man- 
ner,” she continued. ‘‘ There was a story in the old days of the 
Cock Lane ghost; 1 think that was something of the same kind, 
but my memory is rather cloudy on the point. Other cases I know 
have been traced to the sudden mania, solely mischievous or other- 
wise, of some female inmate. 1 hope it will not turn out to have 
been Lettice herself.” 

” Shall 1 watch without you. Miss Deveen?” 

‘‘ No, no; you will bear me company. We will make our arrange- 
ments now, Johuny — for 1 do not intend that any soul shall know 
of this; not even Miss Cattledon. Y'ou will keep counsel, mind, 
like the true and loyal knight you are.” 

Ihe house had gone to rest. In the dark breakfast-room sat Miss 
Deveen and I, side bv side. The fire was dying away, and it gave 
scarcely any light. We sat back against the wall between the fire- 
place and the door, she in one arm-chair, 1 in another. The secre- 
tary was opposite the fire, the key in the lock as usual; the win- 
dow. closed and barred, lay to the left, the door to the right, a table 
in the middle. An outline of the objects was just discernible in 
the fading light. 

‘‘ Do you leave the key in the secretary as a rule, Miss Deveen?” 

1 asked in a whisper, 


OUR VISIT. 


81 


“ Yes. There’s nothing in it that anybody would care to look 
at,” she replied in the same cautious tone. ” My cash- box is geu 
erally there, but that is always locked. But 1 think we had better 
not talk, Johnny.” 

So we sat on in silence. The faint light of the fire died away, 
giving place to total darkness. It was weary watcliing there, hour 
after hour, each hour seeming like an age. Twelve o’clock struck ; 
one; two! I’d have given something to be at liberty to fall asleep. 
J ust to speak a word to Miss Deveen would be a relief, and 1 forgot 
her injunctions. 

” Are you thinking of ghosts. Miss Deveen V” 

” Just then 1 was thinking of God, Johnny. How good it is to 
know that He is with us in the dark as in the light.” 

Almost with the last word, my ears, younger and quicker than 
Miss Deveen’s, caught the sound of a faint movement outside— as 
though steps were descending the stairs. 1 touched Miss Deveen ’s 
arm and breatlied a caution. 

‘‘ 1 hear something. I think it is coming now.” 

The door softly opened. Some white figure was standing there 
— as might be seen by the glimmer of light that came in through 
the passage window. Who or what it was, we could not gather. It 
shut the door behind it, and came slowly gliding along the room on 
the other side the table, evidently feeling its way as it went, and 
making for the window. We sat in breathless silence. Miss 
Deveen had caught my hand and was holding it in hers. 

Next, the shutters were unfastened and slowly folded back; then 
the window was unbolted and its doors were flung wide. This let 
in a flood of moonlight: after the darkness the room seemed bright 
as day. And the white figure doing all this was— Janet Carey in 
her night-gown, her feet bare. 

Whether Miss Deveen held my hand the tighter, or 1 hers, 1 dare 
sav neither of us could tell. Janet’s eyes turned on us, as we sat; 
and 1 fully expected her to go into a succession of shrieks. 

But no. She took no manner of notice. It was just as though she 
did not see us. Steadily, methodically as it seemed, she proceeded 
to search the room, apparently looking for something. First she 
took the chintz cover oft the nearest chair, and shook it out; turned 
over the chair and felt it all over; a small round stand was served 
the same; a blotting-case that happened to lie on the table she car- 
ried to the window, knell down, and examined it on the floor by 
the moonlight, passing her fingers over its few pages, unfolding a 
letter that was inside and shaking it out to the air. Then all that 
was left on the floor, and she turned over another chair, and so 
went on. 

1 felt as cold as charity. Was it her ghost that was doing this? 
How was it she did not see us sitting there? Her eyes were open 
enough to see anything! 

Coming lo the secretary, she turned the key, and began her 
search in it. Pulling out one drawer first; she opened every paper 
it contained, shook them one by one, and let them drop ou to the 
floor. As she was commencing at the next drawer, her back 
toward us. Miss Deveen whispered to me. 


82 


OUR VISIT. 


“ We will get away, Johnny. You go on first. No noise, mind. 

We got out without beinir seen or heard. At least, there was no 
outcry; no sign to tell we had been. Miss Deveen drew me into the 
dining-room; her face, as it caught the glimmer, entering by the 
fan light over the hall door, looked deadly pale. ^ 

“ 1 understand it all, Johnny. She is doing it in her sleep. 

“ In her sleep?” 

*' Yes. She is unconscious. It was better to come away. As 
she came round to search in our part of the room, she might have 
found us, and awoke. That would ha.ve been dangerous.” 

“ But, Miss Deveen, what is she searching for?” 

” 1 know. 1 see it all perfectly. It is for a bank-note.” 

” But— if she is really asleep, how can she go about the search in 
that systematic way? Her eyes are wdde open: she seems to exam- 
ine things as Ihouffh she saw them.” 

” 1 can not tell you how it is, Johnny. They do seem to see 
things, thougl: they are asleep. What’s more, when they awake 
there remains no consciousness of what they have done. TLhis is not 
the first case of somnambulism 1 have been an eye-witness to. She 
throws the window and shutters open to admit the light.” 

” How can she have the sense to know in her sleep that the open- 
ing of them will admit it?” 

” Johnny, though these things are, I can not explain them. Go 
up to your bed now and get to sleep. As 1 shall go to mine. You 
shall know about Janet in the morning. She will take no harm it 
left alone: she has taken none hitherto. Say nothing to any 
one.” 

It was the solution of the great puzzle. Janet Carey had done it 
all in her sleep. And what she had been searching for was a bank- 
note. 

In the situation where Janet had been living as nursery govern- 
ess, a bank-note had disappeared. Janet was suspected and accused 
of taking it. Constitutionally timid and nervous, her spirits long 
depressed by circumstances, the accusation had a grave effect upon 
her. She searched the house for it incessantly, almost night and 
day, just as we had seen her searching the parlor at Miss Deveen’s 
in her sleep, and then fell into a fever— which was only saved by 
great care from settling on the brain. 'When well enough. Miss 
Cattledon had her removed to London to Miss Deveen’s but the 
stigma still clung to her, and the incipient fever seemed still to 
hover about her. The day William Whitney left, she moved from 
Miss Cattledon’s chamber to the one he had occupied: and that 
night, being unrestrained, she went down in her sleep to search. 
The situation of ihe room in which the note had been lost was pre- 
cisely similar to this breakfast-room at Miss Deveen’s— in her 
troubled sleep, poor girl, she must have taken it for the same 
room, and crept down, still asleep, to renew the endless search she 
had formerly made when awake. The night tire policeman was 
watching in the summer-house, Lettice sat up witli Janet; so that 
night nothing occurred. Lettice said afterward that Miss Carey 
twice got out of bed in her sleep and seemed to be making for the 
door, but Lettice guided her back to bed again. And so there was 


OUR VISIT. 83 

the elucidation ; and Janet was just as unconscious of what she had 
done as the bed-post. 

Miss Deveen’s medical man was called in, for brain -fever, es- 
caped, appeared to be fastening; on Janet in earnest now. lie gave 
it as his opinion that she was no natural sleep-walker, but that the 
mind’s disturbance had so acted on the brain and system, coupled 
witli her fright at meeting the policeman at the Colosseum, as to 
have induced the result. At any rate, whatever may have caused 
it, and strange though it was, 1 have only given facts. And in the 
next paper we shall hear more about the bank-note. 


JANET CAREY 


THE LOSS. 

1 . 

It was a summer’s evening, some two years or so previous to the 
events told ot in the last chapter, and the sun was setting in clouds 
of ciimson and gold. On the green lawn at the back uf Rose Villa 
— a pretty detached house, about twenty minutes’ walk from the 
town ot Leltord— sat a lady in a gay dress. She was dark and plain, 
with crinkled black hair, and a rough voice. A girl of twelve, fair, 
pretty, and not in the least like her, sat on the same bench. Three 
younger girls were scampering about at some noisy play; and a 
boy, the youngest ot all, lay on the grass, whistling, and knotting a 
whip-cord. The sun’s slanting rays tinted all with a warm hue: 
the white walls of the house and its clear glass windows; the 
smooth lawn and its surrounding shrubs and flowers, the bright 
clothes of the lady and children: putting one in mind of a scene in 
Fairyland. 

“ Get up, Dicky,” said the lady to the boy. 

Dicky, aged fire, whistled on, without taking any manner ot no- 
tice. 

” Did you hear mamma tell you to get up, Dicky?” spoke the 
fair girl by her mother’s side. ” Get up, sir.” 

” Sha’n’t,” said Dicky. 

“ You go in tor me, Mina,” said Mrs, Knox. ” 1 want to know 
the time. Arnold took my watch into (own this morning to have 
the spring mended.” 

Mina seemed in no more hurrv to obey than Dicky was. Just 
then a low pony-chaise, driven by a boy-groom, rattled out from 
the stable-yard at the side ot the house. Mina looked across at it. 

“ It must be about a quarter past eight,” she said. ” You told 
James not to be later than that in going lo the station.” 

” You might go and see,” spoke Mrs. Knox: ” James is not sure 
to be to time. How glad 1 shall be when that governess is here to 
take the trouble ot you children oft me!” she added, fretlully. 
Mina did not lake the hint about going in: she made off to her sis- 
ters instead. 

This house had once been a doctor’s residence. Soon after 
Thomas Knox, surgeon and apothecary, set up in practice at Lef- 
ford, now five-and-twenty years ago, he married Mary Arnold. 
Rose Villa was hers, and some money besides, and they came to 
live at it, Mr. Knox keeping on his surgery in Lefford. They had 


JAKET CAREY. 


85 


one son, who was named Arnold, When Arnold was ten years old, 
his mother died. A year later his father married a second wife, Miss 
Amelia Carey: alter which these five other young ones came to 
town. Arnold was to be a doctor like his father. His studies were 
in progress, when one moruing a letter came to him in London — 
where he was walking Bartholomew’s Hospital under that clever 
man, William Lawrence— saying that his father was alarmingly ill. 
Arnold reached Lefitord just in time to see him die. ’I'he little one, 
Dicky, was a baby then in long clothes. Arnold was only nineteen. 
No cliance that he could set up in, and keep together the practice, 
which tell through. So he went back to London to study on, and 
pass, and what not; and by and by he came down again Dr, Knox: 
for he had followed the fashion just then getting common, of tak- 
ing the M.D. degree. Arnold Knox had his share of good plain 
sense, and of earnestness too; but example is contagious, and he 
only followed that of Ids fellow-students in going in thus early for 
the degree. He arrived at Leftord “Dr. Knox.” Mr. Tamlyn 
laughed at him, before his face and behind his back, asking him 
what experience he had had that he should hasten to tack on M.D. 
to his name: why, not more experience than a country apothecary's 
apprentice. Arnold, feeling halt ashamed of himself, for he was 
very modest, pleaded the new custom. Custom! returned old Tam- 
lyn”; in his days medical men had worked for their honors before 
taking them. Arnold engaged himself as assistant to Mr. Tamlyn, 
who had dropped into the best part of Dr. Knox’s practice since 
that gentleman’s death, in addition to his own. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Knox, the widow, had continued to live at Rose 
Villa. It belonged to Arnold, having descended to him in right of 
his mother. Mr. Knox bad bequeathed by will five hundred pounds 
to Ainold for the completion of his studies; and all the rest of his 
money to his wife and second family. Leftord talted of it resent- 
fully, saying it was an unjust will: fora good portion of the money 
had been Mary Arnold’s and ought to have gone to her son. It was 
about three hundred and fifty pounds a year in all; and Mrs. Knox 
bewailed and bemoaned her hard fate at having to bring up her chil- 
dren upon so little. She was one of those who must spend; and her 
extravagance had kept her husband poor, in spite of his good prac- 
tice. 

Never a hint did she offer her step-son of paying him rent for his 
house; never a word of thanhs did she tender for the use of it. 

Arnold said nothing: he was thoroughly warm-heaited, generous- 
natured, considering everybody before himself, and he would not 
have hurt her feelings or cramped her pocket for the world. As 
long as he did not want the liouse, slie and his half sisters and 
brother were welcome to it. When he came back from London 
be naturally went to it ; it was his home; and Mrs. Knox did not at 
all like the addition he made to her housekeeping expenses: which 
could not be very much amid the nine others to provide for. The 
very day after Arnold’s bargain was made with Mr. Tamlyn, she 
asked him how much he was going to pay her for his board. Half 
his salary, Arnold promptly replied ; seventy-five pounds a year. 
And Mrs. Knox would have liked to say it was not enough. 

“ Five-and- seventy pounds a year!’’ cackled Leftord, when it got 


86 


JANET CAREY. 


hold of the news. “ Why, it won’t cost her half that. And she 
using his house and eujoying all the money that "was his poor 
mother’s! Well, she has a conscience, that Widow Knox!” 

The arrangement had contitmed until now. Three years had 
elapsed since, and Arnold was four-and twenty. Mrs. Knox found 
herselt often in money difficulties; when she would borrow from 
Arnold, and never think of repaying him. She was now going to 
increase expenses by taking a nursery governess. Awfully tiresome 
those children were, and Mrs. Knox said they wore her out. She 
should have managed the little brats better: not indulged and neg- 
lected them by turns. One hour she’d let them run wild, the next 
hour was shrieking at them in words next door to swearing. 

The governess engaged was a distant relative of her own, a Miss 
Janet Carey. She was an orphan, and had for a year or two been 
teacher in a boys’ preparatory school, limited to thirty pupils. Mrs. 
Knox wrote to offer her twelve pounds a year and a ‘‘ very com- 
fortable home at Rose Villa; to be as one of the family.” It must 
have sounded tempting to Miss Carey after the thirty little boys, and 
she gratefully accepted it. Mrs. Knox had never seen her; she 
pictured to herselt a tall, bony young woman with weak eyes, for 
that had been the portrait of her second cousin. Miss Carey’s father. 

‘‘Crack! crack! Tally-ho! tally-ho!” shouted Dicky, who had 
completed his whip, and got up to stamp and smack it. ‘‘ Yo-ho! 
Tally-ho, tally-ho!” 

“Oh, do for goodness’ sake bo quiet, Dick!” screamed Mrs. 
Knox. “ I can’t have that noise now; 1 told you 1 had a headache. 
Do you hear me, then! Mina, come and take away this hoirible 
whip.” 

Mina came running at the call. Master Dicky was so much 
given way lo as a general rule, that to thwart him seemed to his sis- 
ters something delightful. Dicky dodged out of harm’s way amid 
the shrubs; and Mina was about to go after him, when some one 
came through the open glass doors of what was called the garden- 
room. 

“ Here’s Arnold,” she cried. 

Dr. Knox was a tall, strong-built, fair man, looking older than 
his four-and-twenty years. Nobody could help liking his thin face, 
for it was a good face, full of sense and thought, but it was not a 
handsome one. His complexion was sallow, and his light hair had 
a habit of standing up wild. 

“ You are home betimes,” remarked Mrs. Knox. 

“ Yes; there was nothing more to do,” he answered, sitting down 
in a rustic garden-chair. “ 1 met James in the pony-chaise: where’s 
he gone?” 

“ Why, Arnold, don’t you know that the governess is coming 
this evening?” cried the second girl. Lofty, who was fanning her 
hot face with a cabbage-leaf. “ James is gone to the station for 
her.” 

“ 1 forgot all about the governess,” said Dr. Knox. “ Lotty, 
what a heat you are in!” 

“ We have been running races,” said the child; “and the sun 
was blazing.” 

Dicky came tearing up. Something had happened to the whip. 


JAKET CAREY. 87 

“ Look at it, Arnold,” he said, throwing his arms and the whip 
on the doctor’s knees. ” The lash won’t stay on.” 

” And you want me to mend it, 1 suppose.” 

“Yes. Do it now.” 

” Is that the way to ask?” 

” Please do it now, Arnold.” 

” If 1 can. But 1 tear I can’t, Dicky.” 

‘‘ No! You can mend arms and legs.” 

” Sometimes. Have you a stiip of leather? Or some twine?” 

Dicky pulled a piece of string out of some unfaihoinable pocket. 
He was not promoted to trousers yet, but wore white drawers reach- 
ing to the knee and a purple velvet tunic. Dr. Knox look out his 
penknife. 

” Whal’s the matter with that young Tamlyn again?’" asked 
Mrs, Knox in a fretful tone. 

With Bertie?” returned Dr. Knox, rather carelessly, tor he was 
intent on the whip. ” It is one of the old attacks.” 

” Of course! 1 knew it was nothing more,” spoke Mrs. Knox in 
resentment. ” There was to have been a party at Mrs. Green’s this 
evening. Just as 1 was ready to start for it, her footman came to 
say it was put off on account of Miss Tamlyn, who could not come 
because Master Albert was ill.” 

” Miss Tamlyn would not leave Bertie wiien he is ill for all the 
parties in Christendom, mother.” 

” Miss Tamlyn is welcome to stay with him. But that’s no rea- 
son why Mrs. Green should have put the rest of us off. Who’s 
Bessy Tamlyn, that she should be considered before everybody?^ 
stupid old maid!” 

Mrs. Knox pushed up her lace sleeves in wrath, and jingled her 
bracelets. Evening parlies made the solace of her life. 

The wheels of the returning chaise were heard, and the children 
went rushing round to the front of the house to look at the new 
governess. They brought Janet Carey back to the lawn. Mrs. 
Knox saw a small, slight young girl with a quiet, nice face and very 
simple manners. Dr. Knox rose. Mrs. Knox did not rise. Ex- 
pecting to see a kind of dark strong giantess, she was struck with 
astonishment and lemained sitting. 

” You are surely not Matthew Carey’s daughter!” 

” Yes, madam, 1 am,” was the young lady’s answer, as a blush 
stole into the clear, meek face. 

” Dear me! 1 should never have thought it. Mat Carey was as 
tall and bigas a lamp-post. And— why!— you told me you were 
twenty-three!” 

” 1 was twenty-three last Match.” 

” Well, 1 trust you will be found competent to manage my chil- 
dren. 1 had no idea you were so young-looking.” 

The tone expressed a huge doubt of it. The ill-trained young- 
sters stood staring rudely into Miss Carey’s face. Dr. Knox, push- 
ing some of them aside, held out his hand with a smile of welcome. 

“ 1 hope 3 mu will be able to feel at home here, Miss Carey, he 
said: ‘‘the children must not be allowed to give you loo much 
trouble. Have you had a pleasant iourney?’' 

•‘Take Miss Carey to her room, “Mina,” sharply struck in Mrs. 


88 


JANET CAREY. 


Knox, not at all pleased that her step son should presume to say so 
much: as if the house were his. And Mina, followed by the shy 
and shrinking young governess, went in-doors and up to the roof, 
and showed her a little comfortless chamber there. 

(But the reader must understand tnat in writing this paper, I, 
Johnny Ludlow, am at a disadvantage. Not having been present 
myself at Leflord, 1 can only relate at second-hand what happened 
at Mrs. Knox’s.) 

The time went on. Janet Carey proved herself equal to her 
work; although Mrs. Knox, judging by her young look and gentle 
manners, had been struck by a doubt of her capacity, and politely 
expressed it aloud. Janet’s duties were something like the labors 
ol Hercules: at least, as varied. Teaching was only one of them. 
She helped to dress and undress the children, or did it entirely if 
tfally llie house-maid forgot to attend; she kept all the wardrobes 
and mended the clothes and the socks. She had to be in all places 
at once. Helping Mrs. Knox in the parlor, taking messages to the 
kitchen, hearing the girls’ lessons, and rushing out to the field to see 
that Dicky was not worrying the pony or milking the cow on his 
own account. It was not an orderly household; two maids were 
kept, and James, Mrs. Knox had no talent for management, and 
was frightfully lazy besides; and Janet, little foreseeing what addi- 
tional labor she would bring on herself, took to remedy as far as 
she could the short-comings and confusion. Mrs. Knox saw her 
value, and actually thanked her. As a reward, she made Janet her 
own attendant, her secretary, and her partial housekeeper. Mrs, 
Knox’s hair, coarse and stiff, was rather difficult hair to manage; 
in the morning it was let go anyhow, and Janet dressed it in the 
afternoon. Janet wrote Mrs. Knox’s letters; kept her accounts; 
paid the bills — paid them, that is, when she could get the money. 
Janet, you perceive, was made Jack-of-all-trades at Rose Villa. She 
w^as conscious that it was hardly fair, but she did it cheerfully; and, 
as Mrs, Knox w^ould say, it w’^as all in the day’s work. 

The only one who showed consideration tor Miss Carey was Dr. 
Knox. He lectured the children about giving her so much unnec- 
essary trouble: he bribed Dicky with lozenges and licorice from 
the surgery drawers not to kick or spit at her; and he was, him- 
self, ever kind and considerate to her. They only met at dinner 
and tea, for Dr. Knox snatched a scrambling breakfast (the servants 
never got it ready for him in time), and went off betimes to Lefiord, 
Now^ and then he would come home tolerably early in the evening, 
but he had a great deal to do, and it did not happen often. Mr,' 
Tamlyn was the parish doctor, and it gave Dr. Knox an incessant 
round of tramping: tor the less pleasant division of the daily pro- 
fessional work was turned over to him. 

They got to have a fellow-feeling for one another-— Janet and Dr, 
Knox — a kind of mutual, inward sympathy. Both of them were 
overworked; in the lot of each was less of comfort than might 
have hcen. Dr. Knox compassionated Janet’s hard place and the 
want of poetry in her life. Janet felt hurt to see him made so 
little of at home, and she knevy about the house being his property, 


JAKET CAREY. 


89 


and llie seventy-five pounds a year he paid tor the liberty ot Jivinp: 
in it — and she knew that most of the income enjoyed by Mrs. Knox 
ought to have been Arnold’s Income. His breakfast was scanty; a 
cup of coffee, drunk standing, and some thick bread an^l butter eaten 
as he went along the road to Lefford. Or he would be off b}' cock- 
crow without chance of breakfast, unless he cut a slice of bread in 
the pantry; or perhaps would have to be out all night. Sometimes 
he would get home to dinner; one o’clock; more often it was two 
o’clock, or half past, or three. In that case, Sally would bring in 
a plate of halt-cold scraps for him— anything that happened to be 
left. Once, when Janet was carving a leg of mutton, she asked 
leave to cut oft a slice or tw.') that they might be kept warm tor the 
doctor; but Mrs. Knox blew her up — a fine trouble that would be! 
As to tea, the chances were, if he came m to it at all, that the tea- 
pot would be drained: upon which, some half-cold water would be 
dashed in, and the loaf and butter pushed before him. Dr. Knox 
took it all quietly; perhaps he saw how useless complaint Jvould be. 

Mr. ft’amlyn’s was a large, red-brick, hanclsome house, standing 
in a beautiful garden, in the best and widest street of Lefford. The 
surgery, built on the sido of the house, consisted of two rooms: one 
contained the drugs and the scales, and so on; the other was where 
the better class of patients waited. Mr. Tamlyn’s wife was dead, 
and he had one son, who was a cripple. Poor Bertie was thrown 
down by his nurse when he was a child; he had hardly ever been 
out of pain since; sometimes the attacks were very bad. It made 
him more cross and fractious than a stranger would believe; rude, 
in fact, and self-willed. Mr. Tamlyn just worshiped Bertie. He 
only lived to one end— that of making ‘money for Bertie, after he, 
himself, should be gone. Miss Bessy, Mr. lamlyn’s half-sister, 
kept his house, and she was the only one who tried to keep down 
Bertie’s temper. Leftord thought it odd that Mr. Tamlyn did not 
raise Dr. Knox’s salary; but it was known he wanted to put by 
what he could for Bertie. 

The afternoon sun streamed full on the surgery window, and Dr. 
Knox, who had just pelted back from dinner, stood behind the 
counter, making up bottles ot physic. Mr. Tamlyn had an appren- 
tice, a young fellow named Dockett, but he could not be trusted with 
the physic department yet, as he was apt to serve out calomel 
powder for camomile blows. Of the three poor parish patients, 
wailing for their medicine, two sat and one stood, there not being 
a third chair. The doctor spoke very kindly to them about their 
ailments; he always did that; but he did not seem well himself and 
often put his hand to his throat and chest. 

The physic and the parish patients done with, he went into the 
other room, and threw himself into the easy-chair. “ 1 wondei* 
what’s the matter with me?” he said to himself: and then he got 
up again, for Mr. Tamlyn was coming in. He was a short man 
with a gray face, and iron -gray hair. 

“ Arnold,” said he, ” 1 wish you’d take my round this after- 
noon. There are only three or four people who need be seen, and 
the carriage is at the door.” 

‘‘Is Bertie worse than usual?” asked Arnold; who knew that 
every impediment in Mr. Tamlyn’s was caused by Bertie. 


90 


JANET CAREY. 


“ He is in a great deal of pain. I really don’t care to leave him.” 
“ Oh, I’ll go with pleasure,” replied Arnold, passing into the 

surgery to get his hat. . . , 

Mr. Tamlyn walked with him acro?s the flagged court to the gate, 
talking of the sick people he was going to see. Arnold got into ihe 
hroughani and was driven away. When he returned, Mr. rainlyn 
was upstairs in Bertie’s sitting-room. Arnold went there. 

” Anything more come in? ” he asked. ‘‘ Or can the brougham be 

iSear me, yes; here’s a note from Mrs. Stephenson,” said Mr. 
Tamlyn, replying to the first question. And he spoke testily: for 
Mrs. Stephenson was a lady of seventy, who always insisted on his 
own attendance, objecting to Dr. Knox on the score of his youth 
“ W’ell, you must go for once, Arnold. If she grumbles, tell her 1 


On the sofa in the room lay Albert Tamlyn; a lad of sixteen with 
a fretful countenance and lumpled hair. Miss Tamlyn, a pleasant- 
looking lady of thirty-five, sat by the sofa at work. Arnold Knox 
went up to the boy, speaking with the utmost gentleness. 

‘‘ Bertie, my boy, 1 am sorry you are in pain to-day.” 

” Who said 1 was in pain?” retorted Bertie, ungraciously, his 
voice as squeaky as a penny trumpet. 

” Why, Bertie, you know you are in sad pain; it was 1 who told 
Dr. Knox so,” interposed the father. 

” Then vou had no business to tell him so,” shrieked Bertie, with 
a hideous grin of resentment. ” What is it to him? -or to you?— 
or to anybody?” 

” Oh, Bertie, Bertie!” whispered Miss Tamlyn. ” Oh, my boy, 
you should not give way like this.” 

“You just give your tongue a holiday. Aunt Bessy,” tired 
Bertie. ‘‘ 1 can’t be bothered" by you all in this way.” 

Dr. Knox, looking down at him, saw something wrong in the 
position he was lying in. He stooped, lifted him quietly in his 
strong arms, and altered it. 

” There, Bertie, you will be better now.” 

” No, I’m not better, and why d’you interfere?” retorted Bertie 
in his temper, and burst out crying. It was weary work, waiting 
on that lad; the house had a daily benefit of it. He had always 
been given way to; his whims were studied, his tempers went un- 
reproved, and no patience was taught him. 

Dr. Knox drove to Mrs. Stephenson’s. He dismissed the carriage 
when he came out; for he had some patients to see on his own score 
among the poor, and went oii to them. They were at tea at Mr. 
Tamljm’s when he got back. He looked very ill, and sat down at 
once. 

” Are you tired, Arnold?” asked the surgeon. 

” Not very; but 1 feel out of sorts. My throat is rather painful.” 

” What’s the matter with it?” 

‘‘ N'ot much, 1 dare say. A little ulcerated perhaps.” 

‘‘ i’ll have a look at it presently. Bessy, give Dr. Knox a cup of 


tea.” 

■‘Thank you, 1 shall be glad of it,” interposed the doctor. It 
was not often he took a meal in the house, not liking to intrude on 


JAKST CAREY. 91 

them. When he went up this eveninp he had thought the tea was 
over. 

“We are later than usual,” said Miss Tamlyn, in answer to some 
remark he made. “ Bertie dropp d asleep.” 

Bertie was aw^ake, and eating relays ot bread and butter as he lay 
speaking to nobody. The handsome sitting-rooms down-stairs were 
nearly deserted; Mr. Tamlyn could not beat even to take his meals 
away from Bertie. 

It was growing dusk when Dr. Knox went home. Mr. Tamlyn 
told him to take a cooling draught and to go to bed early. Mrs, 
Knox was out lor the evening. Janet Carey sat at the old piano in 
the school-room, singing songs to the children to keep them quiet. 
They were crowding round "her, and nobody saw him enter the 
room. 

Janet happened to be singing the very song she sung later to us 
that night at Miss Deveen’s— “ Blow, blow, thou wintry wind.” 
Although she had now been at Rose Villa nearly a twelvemonth, for 
early summer had come round again. Dr. Knox had never heard 
her sing. Mrs. Knox haled singing altogether, and especially de- 
spised Janet’s: it was only when" Janet was alone with the children 
that she ventured on it, hoping to keep them still. Arnold Knox 
sat in utter silence; entranced; just as we were at Miss Deveen’s. 

“ You sing ‘ I’ve been roaming,’ now,” called out Dicky, before 
the song was well over. 

“No, not that thing,” dissented Mina. “ Sirg ‘Fray, Goody,’ 
Janet.” They had long since called her by her Christian name. 

The w'hole five (the other three taking sides), not being able to 
agree, plunged at once into a hot dispute. Janet in vain tried to 
make peace by saying she would sing both songs, one after the 
other: they did not listen to her. In the midst ot the noise, 8ally 
looked in to say James had caught a magpie; and the lot scam- 
pered oft. , , 

Janet Carev heaved a sad sigh, and passed her hand over her 
weary brow. ^ She had had a tiring day: there were times when 
she thought her duties would get beyond her. Rising to follow the 
rebellious flock, she caught sight of Dr. Knox, seated back in the 
wide old cane chair. 

“ Oh, sir! 1 — 1 beg your pardon. 1 had no idea any one was 

here.” ^ , 

He came forward smiling; Janet had sat down again m her sur- 

DriSG 

“And though 1 am here, why should you beg my pardon, Miss 

Citrey?” , . , t >> 

“ For singing before you. 1 did not know — I am very sorry. 

“ Perhaps you fancy 1 don’t like singing?” 

“ Mine is such poor singing, sir. And the songs are so old. I 
can’t play; I often only play to them with one hand. 

“ The singing is so poor— and the songs are so old, that i was 
going to ask of you— fo beg of you— to sing one of them again for 
me ’ ’ 

She stood glancing up at him with her nice eyes, as shy as could 
be unceitain whether lie w'as mocking her. 

“ Po you know, Miss Carey, that 1 never ask a young lady for a 


JAN-ET CAREY, 


I 


92 


song now. 1 don’t care to hear the new songs, they are so poor and 
trivolous: the old ones are worth a king’s ransom. Won’t you 
oblige me?” 

” What shall I sing?” 

‘‘ The one you have just sung. ‘ Blow, blow, thou wintry 
wind.’ ” 

He diew a chair close, and listened; and seemed lost in thought 
when it was over. Janet could not conveniently get up without 
pusliing the stool against him, and so sat in silence. 

” My motlier used to sing that song,” he said, looking up. ‘‘ 1 
can recall her every note as well as though 1 had heard her yester- 
day. ‘ As friends remembering not!’ Ay: it’s a harsh world — and 
it grows more harsh and selfish day by day. 1 don’t think it treats 
you any too well, Miss Carey.” 

“Me, sir?” 

“Who remembers you?” 

“ JSIot many people. But I have never had any friends to speak 
of.” 

” Will you give me another song? The one 1 heard Mina ask you 
for— ‘ Pray, Goody.’ My mother used to sing that also.” 

“ 1 don’t know whether 1 must stay, sir. The children will be 
getting into mischief.” 

' ” JNever mind the children. I’ll take the responsibility. ” 

Janet sung the song. Before it was finished the flock came in 
again. Dicky had tried to pull the magpie’s feathers out, so James 
had let it fly. 

After this evening, it somehow happened that Dr. Enox often 
came home early, aUhough his throat was well again. He liked to 
make Miss Carey sing; and to talk to her; and to linger in the gar- 
den with her and the children in the twilight. Mrs. Knox was rarely 
at home, and had no idea how sociable her step-son was becoming. 
Lefford and its neighborhood followed the unfashionable custom of 
giving early soirees: tea at six, supper at nine, at home by eleven. 
James used to go for his mistress; on dark nights he took a lighted 
lantern. Mis. Knox would arrive at home, her gown well pinned 
up, and innocent of any treasonable fingerings out of doors or in. 
It was beyond Janet’s power to get Mina and Lotty to berl one 
minute before they chose to go: though her orders from Mis. Knox 
on the point were strict. As soon as their mother’s step w'as heard 
they would make a rush for the stairs. Janet had to follow them, 
as that formed part of her duty: and by the time Mrs. Knox w^as 
in- doors, the rooms were tree, and Arnold was shut up in his study 
with his medical books and a skeleton. 

For any treason that met the eye or the ear, Mrs. Knox might have 
assisted at all the interviews. The children might have repeated 
every wmrd said to one another by the doctor and Janet, and w^el- 
come. The talk was all legitimate: of their own individual, ordi- 
nary interests, perhaps; of their lost parents; their past lives; the 
present daily doings; or, as the Vicar of Wakefield has it, of pict- 
ures, taste, Shakespeaie, and the musical glasses. Dr. Knox never 
said SUCH a thing to her as. Miss, 1 am in love with you; Janet was 
the essence of respecttul shyness and called him Sir. 

One evening something or other caused one of the soirees to break 


JAN'ET CAREY. 


93 

up midway, and Mrs. Knox came home by twilight in her pink 
gauze gown. Instead of linging at the front door ."she came round 
the garden to the lawn, knowing: quite well the elder children were 
not gone to bed, and would probably be in the garde Q-room. Very 
softly went she, intending to surprise them. The moon shone full 
on the glass doors. 

The doors were shut. And she could see no children. Only 
.Janet Carey sitting at the piano, and Dr. Kdox silting close by her, 
his eyes resting on her face, and an unmislakablelookof— say friend- 
ship— in them. Mrs. Knox took in the whole scene by the lignt of 
the one candle standing on the table. 

She let go the pink skirt and burst open the doors with a bang; 
Imagination is apt to conjure up skeletons of the luture; a whole 
army of skeletons rushed into hers, any one of them ten times more 
ugly than that real skeleton in the doctor’s study. A vision of his 
marrying Janet and taking possession of the house, and wanting all 
his money for himself instead of paying the family bills with it, 
was the worst. 

Before a great and real dread, passion has to be silent. Mrs. Knox 
felt that she should very much like to buffet both of them with 
hands and tongue: but policy restrained her. 

“ Where are the children?” she began, as snappish as a fox; but 
that was only usual. 

Janet had turned round on the music-stool; her meek bends drop 
ping on her lap, her face turning all the colors of the rainbow. Dr. 
Knox just sat back in his chair and carelessly hummed to himself 
the tune Janet had been singing. 

“Mina and Lotty are at Mrs. Hampshire’s, ma’am,” answered 
Janet. ‘ Slie came to fetch them just after you left, and said 1 
might send in for them at half-past nine. The little ones are in 
bed.” 

“Oh,” said Mrs. Knox. “It’s rather early for you to beat 
home; is it not, Arnold?” 

“ Not pj rticularly, 1 think. My time for coming home is always 
uncertain, you know.” 

Pie rose, and went to his room as he spoke. Janet got out the 
basket of stockings; and Mrs. Knox sat buried in a brown study. 

After this evening things grew bad for Miss Carey. Mrs. Knox 
watched. She noticed her step-son's manner to Janet, and saw that 
he liked her ever so much more than was expedient. What to tlo, 
or how to stop it, she did not know, and was at her wits’ end. To 
begin with, there was nothing to stop. Had she put together a 
w’hole week’s looks and words of Arnold’s, directed to Janet, she 
could not have squeezed one decent iota of complaint out of the lot. 
Neither dared she risk offending Arnold. What with the perpetual 
soirees out, and the general daily improvidence at liome, Mrs. Knox 
was never in funds, and Arnold found oceans of household bills 
coming in to him. Tradesmen were beginning, as a rule now, to 
address their accounts to Dr. Knox. Arnold paid them; he was 
good-natured, and sensitively averse to complaining to his step- 
mother; but he thought it w^as hardly fair. What on earth she did 
with her income he could not imagine; rather than live in this 


94 


JANET CAREY. 


chronic state of begging, she might have laid down the pony-car- 
riage. 

Not being able to attack the doctor, Mrs. Knox vented all her 
venom on Miss Carey. Janet was the dray horse ot the family, and 
therefore could not be turned away: she was too useful to Mrs. 
Knox to be parted with. Real venom it was; and hard to be borne. 
Her work grew harder, and she was snubbed from morning till 
night. The children’s insolence to her was not reproved; Mina took 
to order her about. Weary and heart-sick grew she: her life was 
no better than Cinderella’s: the only ray ot comfort in it being the 
rare snatches ot intercourse with Dr. Knox. lie was like a true 
friend to her, and ever kind. He might have been kinder had he 
known what sort of a life she really led. But Mrs. Knox was a 
diplomatist, and the young try did not daie to worry people very 
much, or to call names before their big brother Arnold. 


II. 

“ Has Dr. Knox come in, Mr. Dockett?” 

Mr. Dockett, lounging over the counter to tease the dog, brought 
himself straight with a jerk, and faced his master, Mr. Tamlyn. 

“ Not yet, sir.” 

” When lie comes in, ask him if he’ll be so kind as step to me in 
the dining-room.” 

Mr. Tamlyn shut the surgery door, and the apprentice whistled 
to the dog, which had made its escape. Presently Dr. Knox came 
across the court-yard and received the message. 

” Mr. Tamlyn wants you, sir, please. He is in the dining-room. ” 

“ Have you nothing to do, Dockett? Just jet on and clean those 
scales.” 

The dining-room looked out on the garden and on the playing 
fountains. It was one of the prettiest rooms in Lefford; with white- 
and-gold papered walls, and mirrors, ana a new carpet, Mr. 
Tamlyn liked to have things nice at home, and screwed the money 
out of the capital put by for Bertie. He sat at the table before some 
account books. 

” Bit down, Arnold,” he said, taking off his spectacles ‘‘ 1 have 
some news tor you: L hope it won’t put you out too much.” 

It did put out Dr. Knox very considerably, and it surprised him 
even more. For some time past now he had bepn cherishing a private 
expectation that Mr. Tamlyn would be taking him into partnership, 
giving him probably a small share only at first. Of all things it 
seemed the most likely to Dr. Knox: and, wanting in self-assertion 
tliough he was, it seemed to him that it would be a right thing to 
do. Mr. Tamlyn had no one to succeed him: and all the best part 
of his practice was formerly Mr. Knox’s. Had Arnold only been a 
little older when his father died, he should have succeeded to it him- 
self: there would have been little chance ot Mr. Tamlyn’s getting 
any of it. In justice, then, if Mr. Tamlyn now, or later, took a 
partner at all, it ought to be Arnold. But for looking forward to this. 
Dr. Knox had never stayed on all this while at the paltry salary 
paid him, and worked himself nearly to a skeleton, As old Tamlyn 


JANET CAREY. 95 

talked, he listened as one in a bewildered dream, and he learned that 
his own da 5 ’’-dream was over. 

Old Tamlyn was about to take a i)artner: some gentleman from 
London, a Mr. Sliuttleworth. Mr. Shuttleworlh was seeking a 
country practice, and would bring in three thousand pounds. 
Arnold's services would only be required to the end ot the year, as 
Mr. Shuttleworth would join on the first ot January. 

“ There’ll not be room for three of us, Arnold—and Dockett will 
be coming on,” said Mr. Tamlyn. ” Besides, at your age, and with 
your talents, you ought to be doing something better for yourself. 
Don’t you see that you ought?” 

” 1 have seen it for some time. But— the truth is,” added Arnold, 
” though 1 hardly like to own to it now, 1 have been cherishing a 
hpoe ot this kind for myself. 1 tliought, Mr. Tamlyn, you might 
some time offer it to me.” 

” And so 1 would, Arnold, and there’s no one 1 should like to 
take as partner half so well as yourself, but that you have not the 
necessary money,” said the surgeon, with eagerness. ” 1 see what 
you are thinking, Arnold — that I might have taken you without a 
premium: but 1 must think of my poor boy. Shuttleworth brings 
in three thousand. 1 would have taken two with you.” 

” 1 could not bring in two hundred, let alone two thousand,” said 
Dr. Knox. 

” There’s where it is. To tell you the truth, Arnold, 1 am getting 
tired of work; don’t seem so much up to it as I was. 'Whoever 
comes in will have to do more even than you have done, and of 
course will expect to take at least a half share of the yearly profits. 
1 should not put by much then: I could not alter my style of living, 
you know, or put down the carriages and horses, or anything ot 
that so’-t: and 1 must save for poor Bertie. A sum ot three thou- 
sand pounds means three thousand to me.” 

” Are the arrangements fully made?” asked Dr. Knox. 

‘‘Yes. Mr. Shuttleworth came down to Lefford yesterday, and 
has been going into the books with me this morning. And, by the 
way, Arnold, 1 hope you will meet him here at dinner to-night. 1 
should not a bit wonder, either, but he might tell you of some open- 
ing for yourself: he seems to know most ot the chief medical men 
in London. He is selling a good practice of his own. It is his 
health that obliges him to come to the country.” 

” 1 hope you will suit one another,” said Dr. Kaox, for he knew 
that it was not everybody who could get on with fidgety old Tamlyn. 

‘‘We are to give it a six months’ trial,” said Tamlyn. ‘‘He 
would not bind himself without that. At the end of the six months, 
if both parties are not satisfied, we cancel the agreement: he with- 
draws his money, and 1 am at liberty to take a fresh partner. For 
that half year’s services he will receive his half share of profits: 
which of course is only fair. You see 1 tell you all, Arnold.” 

Dr. Knox dined with them, and found the new man a very pleas- 
ant fellow, but quite as old as Tamlyn. He could not help wonder- 
ing how he would relish the parish work, and said so in a whisper 
to Mr. Tamlyn while Shuttleworth was talking to Bertie. 

‘‘ Oh, he thinks it will be exercise for him,” replied the surgeon. 
” And Dockett will be coming on, you know.” 


JANET CARET. 


9G 

It was a dark night, the beginning ot November, wet and splashy. 
Mrs. Knox had a soiree at Rose Villa; and when the doctor rea 3 hed 
home he met the company coming forth with cloaks and lanterns 
and clogs. 

“ OlC it’s you, Arnold, is it!” cried Mrs. Knox. “ Could you not 
have come home for my evening? Two of the whist-tables had to 
play dummy; we had some disappointments.” 

‘‘ 1 sla 5 "ed to dine with Mr. Tandy n,” said Arnold. 

Sitting together over the fire, he and she alone, Mrs. Knox asked 
him whether he would not give her a hundred pounds a year for 
his board, instead of seventy-five. Which was uncommonly cool, 
considering what he paid for her besides in housekeeping bills. 
Upon which, Arnold told her he should not be with her beyond the 
close of the year; he was going to leave Lefford. For a minute it 
struck her dumb. 

” Good heavens, Arnold, how am 1 to keep the house on without 
your help? 1 must say you have no consideration. Leave Leftord!” 

“Mr. Tamlyn has given me notice,” replied Arnold. *‘lle is 
taking a partner.” 

” But — 1 just ask you— how am 1 to pay my way?” 

‘‘ It seems to me that your income is quite sufficient for that, 
mother. If not— perhaps — if 1 may suggest it— you might put 
down the pony chaise.” 

IMrs. Knox shrieked out that he was a cruel man. Arnold, who 
never cared to stand scenes, lighted his caudle and went up to bed. 

IShuttleworth had taken rather a fancy to Dr. Knox; perhaps he 
remembered, too, that he was turning him adrift, Any.vay, he be- 
stirred himself and got him appointed to a medical post in London, 
where Arnold would receive two hundred pounds a year, and his 
board. 

” 1 presume you know that 1 am about to run away. Miss Carey,” 
said Dr. Knox, hastening up to join her one Sunday evening when 
they were coming out of church at Leflord. 

“As if everybody did not know that!” cried Mina, '* Where’s 
mamma, Arnold? and Lotty?” 

“ They are behind, talking to the Parkers.” 

I'lie Parkers were great friends of Mina’s, so she ran back. The 
doctor and Janet walked slowly on. 

‘‘Toil will be glad to leave, sir,” said .Tanet, in her humble fash- 
ion. “ Things have not been very comfortable for you at home — 
and 1 hear you are taking a much better post,” 

“ 1 shall be sorry to leave for one thing- that is, because 1 fear 
things may be more uncomfortable for you,” be spoke out bravely. 

“ What Rose Villa will be when all restraint is taken oft the chil- 
dien, and with other undesiiable things, 1 don’t lii^e to imagine.” 

“ 1 shall do very well, sir,” said Janet, meekly. 

“ 1 wonder you put up with it,” he exclaimed. “ You might be 
ten thousand times better and happier elsew'here.” 

“ But 1 fear to change; 1 have no one to recommend me or to look 
out for me, you know.” 

‘‘ There’s that lady I’ve heard you speak of— your aunt. Miss 
Cattledon.” 

“ I could not think of troubling her. My mother’s family do 


JANET CAREY. 


97 


not care to take miicli notice of me. They thought my father was 
not my mother’s equal in point of family, and when she married 
him they turned her off, as it were. Nc, sir, 1 have only myself to 
look to.” 

‘‘ A great many of us are in the same case,” he said. ” Myself, 
tor insiiince. 1 have been indulging 1 don’t know whal day-dreams 
for some time past; one of them that Mr. Tamlyn would give me a 
share in his practice; and —and there were others to follow in due 
course. Vain dreams all, and knocked on tlie head now.” 

‘‘You will be sure to get on,” said Janet. 

‘‘Do you think so?”"he asked very softly, looking down into 
Janet’s nice eyes by the gaslight in the road. 

” At least, sir, 1 hope you will.” 

‘‘ Wed, 1 shall try tor it.” 

‘‘ Arnold!— come back, Arnold; 1 want you to give me your arm 
up the hill,” called out Mrs. Knox. 

Dr. Knox had to enter on his new situation rit quarter day, the 
twenty-fifth of December; so he went up to London on Christmas 
Eve. Which was no end of a blow to old Tamlyn, as it left all the 
work on his own shoulders for a week. 


111 . 

From two to three months passed on. One windy March day 
Mrs Knox sat alone in the garden-room, worrying over her money 
matters. Tiie table, drawn near the fire, was strewed with bills and 
tradesmen’s books; the sun shone on the closed glass doors. 

Mrs, Knox’s affairs had been getting into an extremely hopeless 
condition. It seemed, by the accumulation of pr-escnt debts, that 
Arnold’s money must have paid for everything. Her own income, 
which came in quartcrl}^ appeared to dwindle away, she knew not 
how or where. A piteous appeal had gone up a week ago to Arnold, 
saying she should be in prison unless he assisted her, for the cred- 
itors were threatening to take steps. Arnold’s answer, delivered 
this morning, was a fitty-pound note inclosed in a very plain letter. 
It iiad inconvenienced him to send the money, he said, and he 
begged her fully to understand that it was the last he should ever 
send. 

So there sat Mrs. Knox before the table in an old dressing-gown, 
and her black hair more disheveled than a mop. The bills, uceans 
of them, and the fifiy-pound bank- note lay in a heap together. 
Master Dicky liad been cutting animals out of a picture-book, 
leaving the scraps on tne cloth and the old carpet. Lotty had dis- 
tributed there a tew sets of dolls’ clothes. Gerty had been tearing 
up a newspaper for a kite’s tail. The titty pounds would pay about 
a third of the debts, and Mrs. Knox was trying to apportion a sum 
to each of them accordingly. 

It bothered her fimdy, lor she was no accountant. She could 
manage to add up without making very many mistakes; but when 
it carne to subtraction, her brain got into a hopeless maze. Janet 
mio-ht have done it, but Mrs Knox was furious with Janet and 
tvould not ask her. Ill treated, overworked Janet had plucked 
4 


JAXET CAEEY. 


08 

up courage to give notice, and was looking out for a situation in 
LefEord. Just now, Janet was in the kitchen, ironing Dick’s trilled 
collars. 

“ Take fifty-three from fourteen, and how much does remain?” 
groaned Mrs, Knox over the shillings. At that moment there was a 
sound of carriage-wheels, and a tremendous ring at the door. Sally 
darted in. 

” Oh, ma’am, it’s my Ladj Jenkins! 1 knew her carriage at a 
distance. It have got red wheels!” 

” Oh, my goodness!” cried Mrs. Knox, starting up. ” Don’t 
open the door yet, Sally; let me get upstairs first. Her ladyship’s 
come to take me a drive, 1 suppose. Go -and call Miss Carey — or 
stay, I’ll go to her.” 

Mrs Knox opened one of the glass doors, and wh'sked round to 
the kitchen. She bade Janet leave the ironing and go to do her 
books and bills, hastil}’’ explaining that she wanted to know how 
far fifty pounds w^ould go toward paying a fair proportion of each 
debt. Janet was to make it all out in figures. 

” Be sure take care of the note — I’ve left it somewhere,” called 
back Mrs. Knox as she escaped to the stairs in hurry and confusion; 
for my Lady Jenkins’s footman had hold ot the bell and knocker, 
and was working botli alarmingly. 

Janet only hait comprehended. She went round to the garden- 
room, shut the glass duors, and began upon the bills and books. 
But first of all, she looked out for the letters that were lying about, 
never supposing that the special charge had reference to anything 
else; at least, she said so afterward; and put them inside Mrs. 
Knox’s desk. Prom first to last, then and later, Janet Carey main- 
tained that she did not see any bank-note. 

Mrs. Knox dressed herself with Sally’s help, and went out with 
my Lady Jenkins— the ex Mayor of Lefiord’s wife. The bills and 
the calculations made a long job, and Janet’s mind was buried in 
it, when a startling disturbance suddenly arose in the garden; Dicky 
had climbed into the mulberry-tree and fallen out of it The girls 
came, dasliing open the glass doors, saying he was dead. Janet ran 
out, herself nearly frightened to death. 

Very true. If Dicky was not dead he looked like it. He lay 
white and cold under the tree, blood trickling down his face. James 
galloped oft for j\lr, Tamlyn, The two maids and Janet cairied 
Dicky into the kitchen, and put him on the ironing-board with his 
head on an old cushion. That revived him; and when jVlr. Shuttle- 
Ivorth arrived, for Tamlyn was out, Dicky was demanding bread 
and treacle. Sliuttleworth put some diach 3 don plaster on his head, 
ordered him to bed, and told him not to get into trees again. 

Their fears relieved, the maids had time to remember common 
affairs. Bally found all the sitting-room fires out, and hastened to 
light them. As soon as Janet could leave Dicky, who had persisted 
in going to bed in his boots, she went hack to* the accounts, Mrs. 
Knox came in before they were done. Bhe blow up Janet for not 
being quicker, and wlien she had recovered the shock of Dicky’s 
accident, she blew her up for that. 

” "Where’s the note?” she snapped. 

” What note, ma’am?” asked Janet. 


JANET CAREY. 99 

“The bank-note. The bank-note for fifty poimils that 1 tolfi you 
to take care of. “ 

“ 1 liave not seen any bank-note” said Janet. 

Well, that began the trouble. The bank-nore was searched tor, 
and there was neither sign nor symptom of it to be found, Mrs. 
Knox accused Janet Carey ot stealing it, and called in a policeman 
Mrs. Knox made her tale irood to tiie man, representing Janet as a 
very black girl indeed; but the man said he could not take her into 
custody unless Mrs. Knox would charge her formally with the thelt. 

And that, Mrs. Knox hesitated to do. She told the policeman 
she would take until the morrow to consider of it. The whole of 
that evening, the whole of the night, the whole of the next morning 
till midday, Danet spent searching the garden-room. At midday 
the policeman appeared again, and Janet went into a sort of fit. 

When Mr. Shuttleworth was sent for to her he said it was caused 
by fright, and that she had received a shock to the nervous system. 
For some days she was delirious, on and ofi; and when she could 
escape Sally’s notice, who waited on her, they’d find her down in 
the garden-room, searching for the note, just as we afterward saw 
her searching tor it in her sleep at Miss Deveen’s, It chanced that 
the two rooms resembled each other remarkably: in their situation 
in the houses, in their shape and size and building arrangements, 
and in their opening by glass doors to the garden. Janet subsided 
into a sort of wasting fever; and Mrs. Knox thought it time to send 
for .Miss Cattledon. The criminal proceedings might wait, she told 
Janet; like the heartless woman that sne was I Not but that the 
loss of the money had thrown her fiat on her beam-ends. 

Miss Cattleilon came. Janet solemnly declared, not only that she 
had not got the bank-note, but that she had never seen the note; 
never at all. Mrs Knox said no one but Janet could have got it, 
and but for her illness, she would be already in prison. Miss Cal- 
tledon told Mrs. Knox she ought to be ashamed ot herself for sus- 
pecting Janet Carey, and took Janet oft by train to Miss Deveen’s. 
Janet got there in a shivering fit, fully persuailed that the Leftord 
policemen were following her by the orders ot Mrs. Knox. 

And for the result of it all we must go on to the next paper 


DR. KNOX 


SALLY. 

My dear Arnold, — Come clown to Leflorcl without delay if 
you can: 1 want to see you particularly. 1 am in a peck of trouble. 

“ Ever your friend, 

“Richard Tamlyn.” 

The above letter reached Dr. Knox in London one morning in 
April. He made it right with the authorities to whom he was sub- 
ject, and reached Leffoid the same afternoon. 

Leaving his bag at the station, he went straight to Mr. Tamlyu’s 
house; every other person he met halting to shake hands with him. 
Entering the iron gates, he looked up at the windows, but saw no 
one. The sun shone on the pillared portico, the drawing-room 
blinds beside it were down. Dr. Knox crossed the flairiied court- 
yard, and passed oil to enter by the route most familiar to him, the 
surgery, trodden by him so often in the days not long gone by. Mr- 
Dockeit stood behind tlic counter, compounding medicines, with his 
coat-ciifis and wristbands turned up. 

“ Well, 1 never!” exclaimed the young gentleman, di'opping a 
bottle in his astonishment as he stared at Dr. Knox. “\ou are 
about the last person 1 should have expected to see, sir.” 

By W'hich remark the doctor found that Mr. Tamlyn had not 
taken his apprentice into his confidence. Are 3mu all well here?” 
he asked, shaking hands. 

“ All as jolly as circumstances will let us be,” said Mr. Dockett. 
“ ‘Voung Bertie has taken a turn for the worse.” 

“ lias he? 1 am sorry to hear that. Is Mr. Tamlyn at home? 
If so, ITl go in and see him.” 

“ Oh, he’s at home,” was the answer. “ He has liardl}’- stirred 
out of doors for a weeK, and IShuttiewmrth says he’s done to death 
with the work.” 

Going in as readily as though he had not left the house for a day. 
Dr. Knox found Mr. Tamlyn in the dining-room : the pretty room 
that looked to the garden and the fountain. He was sitting b}’- the 
fire, his hand rumpling his gray hair: a sure sign that he was in 
some bother or tribulation. In the not quite four months that had 
passed since Dr Knox left him, he had changed considerably: his 
hair was graj'er, his face thinner. 

“Is it you, Arnold?—! am so glad. ] thought you’d come if 
you could.” 

Dr. Knox drew a chair near the fire, and sat down. “ Your letter 

( 100 ) 


DR. KKOX. 


101 


gave me conceiu,” lie said. “ And what do you mean by talking 
about a peck of trouble?” 

” A peck of trouble!” echoed Mr. Tamlyn. 1 might have said 
a bushel. 1 might have said a ton. 1 here’s trouble on all sides, 
Arnold.” 

” Can 1 help you out of it in any Way?” 

‘‘ With some of it, I hope you can: it’s why 1 sent tor you. But 
not with all: not with the worst. Bertie’s dying, Arnold.” 

‘‘1 hope not!” • 

” As truly as that we are here talking to one another, 1 believe 
him to be litcually dying,” repeated the surgeon solemnly, his eyes 
filling and his voice quivering with pain. ‘‘ He has dropped asleep, 
and Bessy sent me out of the room: my sighs wake him, she says. I 
can’t lielp sighing, Arnold: and sometimes the sigh ends with a 
groan, and I can’t help that.” 

Dr. Knox didn’t see his way clear to make much answer just 
here. 

‘‘ I’ve detected the change in him for a month past; in ray in- 
ward heart 1 felt suie he could not live. Do you know what your 
father used to say, Arnold? He always said that if Bertie lived over 
his sixteenth or seventeenth year, he’d do; but the battle would be 
just about that lime. Heaven knows, 1 attached no importanee to 
the opinion; 1 have hardly thought of it: but he was right, you 
see. Bertie would be seventeen next July, it he vvere to live.” 

” I’m sure! am very grieved tohear this— and to see your sorrow,” 
spoke Arnold. 

“He is so changed!” resumed Mr. Tamlyn, in a low voice. 
“You remember iiow irritable he was, poor fellow? — well, all 
that has gone, and he is like an angel. So afraid of giving trouble; 
so humble and considerate to every one! It was this change that 
first alarmed me.” 

“ AVlieu did it come on?” 

“Oh, weeks ago. Long before there was much change for the 
worse to be seen in him. Only this morning he held my hand, poor 
lad and—” Mr. Tamlyn faltered, coughed, and then went on 
again more bravely. “ He held my hand between his, Arnold, and 
said he thought God had forgiven him, and how happy it would all 
be when we met in Heaven. For a long while now not a day has 
passed but he has asked us to forgive him for his wicked tempers— 
that’s his word for it, wicked — the servants, and all. 

“ Is he in much pain?” . 

“ Not much now. He has been in a great deal at times. But it 
made no difference, pain or no pain, to his sweetness of temper, 
lie will lie resigned and quiet, tlie drops pouring down his lace 
with the agony, never an impatient word escaping him. One day 1 
heard him tell Bessy that angels were around him, helping him to 
bear it. M'e may be sure, AruoUl, when so extraordinary a change 
as that takes place in the temperament, the clDse of life is not far 


‘ And 


off.” 

“ Very true — as an ordinary rule,” acquiesced Dr, Knox, 
now, how can 1 help you in this trouble • 

“In this trouble?— not at all,” returned Mr. Tamlyn, rousing 
himself, and speaking energetically, as it he meant to put the 


102 


r>R, KNOX. 


thought behind him. “ This trouble no earthly being can aid me 
in, Arnold; and 1 don’t think there’s anybody but yourself I'd speak 
to of it: it lies too deep, 5^011 see; it wrings the soul. 1 could die of 
this trouble: 1 only fret at the other.” 

” And what is the other?” 

” Shiittleworth won’t stay.” 

“Won’t he?” 

“ Shuttleworth says the kind of practice is not w-hat he has been 
accustomed to, and the work’s too hard, and he does not care how 
soon he leaves it. And j-et Dockett has come on surprisingly, and 
takes his share now. The fact is, Arnold, Shullleworth is just as 
lazy as he can hang together: he’d like to treat a dozen rose-water 
palienis a day, and go through life easily. My belief is, he means 
to doit.” 

“ But that will scarcely bring grist to his mill, will it?” cried Dr. 
Knox. 

“ His mill doesn’t want grist; there’s the worst of it,” said 
Tamlyn. “The man was not badly oft when became here: but 
since then his only brother must go and die, and Shuttleworth has 
come into all his money. A thousand a year, if it’s a penny.” 

“Then, 1 certainly don’t wonder at his wanting to give uj^ the 
practice,” returned the doctor, with a smile. 

“ That’s not all,” grumbled old Tamlyn. “ He wants to lake 
away Bessy.” 

“ To take away Bessie!” 

“ The two have determined to make themselves into one, 1 be- 
lieve. Be?sy only hesitated because of leaving poor Bertie. That 
impediment will not be in her way long.” 

He sighed as lie spoke. Dr. Knox did not yet see what he was 
wanted for: and asked again. 

“ I’ve been leading up to it,” said Mr. Tamlyn. “ You must 
come back to me, Arnold.” 

“ On the same terms as before?” inquired the doctor after a pause. 

“ Konsense. You’d say ‘ No,’ oli-hand, if 1 proposed them. In 
Bhuttleworth’s place.” 

“ Of course, Mr. Tamlyn, 1 could not come— I would not come 
unless it were made worth my while. If it were, I should like it of 
all things.” 

“ Yes, just so; that’s what I mean. Don’t you like your post in 
London?” 

“ I like it very well, indeed. And 1 have bad no doubt that it 
wm' 11 lead to something better. But, il 1 saw a fair prospect before 
me here, I would prefer to come back to Lefford.” 

IVtat shall be made fair enough. Tilings have changed with 
me, Arnold: and I shouldn’t wonder but you will some lime, per- 
haps not very tar distant, have all iny practice in your owm hands. 

1 feel to be gelling old: spirits and health are alike broken.” 

“ Nay, not old yet, Mr. Tamlyn. You may wait a good twenty 
years tor that.” 

“ Well, well, we’ll talk further at another interview. My mind’s 
at rest now, and that’s a great thing. If you had refused, Arnold, 

I should have sold my practice for an old song and gone clean away; 

1 never could have stood being associated with another stranger. 


DR. KNOX. 103 

You are going up home, 1 conclude. Will you come in Ibis even- 
ing?” 

” Very well,” said Dr. Knox, rising. ” Can 1 go up and see Ber- 
tie?” 

“Not now; I’d not have him awakened for the world; and I 
assure you the turning ot a straw seems to doit. You shall see him 
this evening: he is always awake and restless then.” 

Calling tor his bag at the station. Dr. Knox went on to Rose Villa. 
They were at tea. The children rose up with a shout: his step- 
mother looked as though she could not believe her eyesight. 

“ Why, A.rnold! Have you come home to stay?” 

” Only fora day or two,” he answered. “1 thought 1 should 
surprise you, but 1 had not time to write.” 

Shaking hands with her, kissing the children, he turned to some 
one else, who was seated at the tea-table and had not stirred. His 
hand was already out, when she turned her head, and he drew his 
hand and himself back together. 

“Miss Mack, my new governess,” spoke Mrs. Knox. 

“ 1 beg your parclon,” said Dr. Knox to Miss Mack, who turned 
out to be a young person in green, w ith stout legs and slippers down 
at heel. “ 1 thought it w'as Miss Carey,” he added to his step-mother. 
“ Where is Miss Carey?” 

Which of the company, Miss Mack excepte<l, talked the fastest, 
and which the loudest, could not have been decided though a 
thousand-pound wager rested on it. It was a dreadful tale to tell. 
Janet Carey had turned out to be a thief; Janei Carey had gone out 
of her mind nearly with fever and fear when she knew she wuis to 
be taken to prison and tried: tried for stealing the money; and 
Janet’s aunt had cotne down and carried her away out of the reach 
of the policemen. Dr. Knox gazed and listened, and felt his blood 
turning cold with righteous horror. 

“Be silent,” he sternly said. “There must have been some 
strange mistake. Miss Carey was good and upright as the day” 

.“ She stole my fifty pounds,” said Mrs. Knox. 

“ What/’’ 

“ Slie stole my fifty-pound note. It was t)ie one you sent me, 

^ His Dice reddened a little. “ That note? Well, 1 do not know 
the circumstances that led you to accuse Miss Carey, but 1 know 
they wmre mistaken ones. 1 will answer for Janet Carey with my 
life” 

“ She tookthatnote; it could not have gone in any other manner^’ 
steadily persisted Mrs, Knox. “ You’ll say so yourself, Arrrold, 
when you know all. The commotion it has caused in the place, 
and the worry it has caused me, are beyond everything. Every da: 
some tradesman or other comes here lo ask whether the money has 
been replaced— for of course they know I can’t pay them under such 
a loss, until it is; and I must say they have behaved very well, i 
never liked Janet Carey. Deceitful minx! 

With so many talking together. Dr. Knox did not gather a very 
clear account of the details. Mrs. Knox mixed up surmis^ with 
facts, in a manner to render the whole incomprehensible. He said 


104 


DR. KNOX. 


no more then. Later, Mrs. Knox saw that he was preparing to go 
out. She resented it. 

“ 1 think, Arnold, you might have passed this one evening at 
home: I want to have a talk with you about money matters. What 
lam to do is more than 1 know, unless Janet Carey or her friends 
can be made to return the money.” 

‘‘ 1 am going down to Tamlyn’s, to see Bertie.” 

Dr. Knox let himself out at tbe street door, and was walking 
down the garden- pal h, when he found somebod}’’ come flying past. 
It was Sally the house maid, on her way to open the gate for him. 
Such an act of attention was unusual and quite unnecessary; the 
doctor thanked her but told her she need not have taken the trouble. 

” 1 — 1 thought I’d like to ask you, sir, how that — that poor Miss 
Carey is,” saia Sally, in a whisper, as she held the gate back, and 
her breath was so short as to hinder her words. ” It was London 
she was took to, sir; and, as you live in the same town, I’ve won- 
dered whether you might not have come across her.” 

” London is a large place,” observed Dr. Knox. ” 1 did not even 
know Miss Carey was there.” 

” it was a dreadful thing, sir, poor young lady. Everybody so 
harsh, too, over it. And 1— -1 — 1 can't believe but she w'as inno- 
cent.” 

It is simply an insult on Miss Carey to suppose otherwise,” said 
Dr. Knox. ” Are you well, SallyY What’s tlie matter with your 
breath?” 

” 01), it’s nothing but a stitch that takes me, thank you, sir,” re- 
turned Sally, as she shut the gate after him and flew back again. 

But Dr. Knox saw it was no ” stitch ” that had stopped Sally’s 
breath and checked her utterance, but genuine agitation. It set 
him thinking. 

No longer any sitting up for poor Bertie Tamlyn in this world! 
It was about eight o’clock when Dr. Knox entered the sick-charn- 
ber. Bertie lay in bed; his arms thrown outside the counterpane 
beside him. as though they were too warm. Tire fire gave out its 
heat; two lamps w'ere burning, one on the mantel-piece, one on the 
drawers at the far end of the room. Bertie had always liked a great 
deal of light, and he liked it still. Miss Tamlyn met Dr, Knox at 
the door, and silently shook hands with him. 

Bertie’s wu'de-open ejms turned to look, and the doctor approached 
the bed; but he halted for one imperceptible moment in his course, 
\Viien IMr. Tamlyn bad said Bertie was dying, Arnold Knox had 
assumed it to mean, not that he was actually dying at that present 
time, but that he would not recover! But as he gazed at Bertie 
now' in the bright light, he saw something in the face that his ex- 
perienced medical eye could not mistake. 

He took the wasted, fevered hand in his, and laid his soothing 
fingers on the damp brow. Miss Tamlyn went away tor a minute’s 
respite from the sick-room. 

” Beitie, my boy!” 

” Why didn’t .you come before, Arnold?” was the low, weak an- 
swer; and the breath w'as labored and the voice down nowhere. ” 1 


DR. KNOX. 


105 


have wanted you. Aunt Bessy would not write; and papa thought 
you would not care to come down trom London ]ust for me.” 

“ But 1 would, Bertie— had 1 known you were as ill as this.” 

Bertie’s hands were restless. The wliile quilt had knots in it as 
big as peas, and he was picking at them. Dr. Knok sat down by 
the low bed. 

” Do you think 1 am dying?” suddenly asked Bertie. 

It took the doctor by surprise. One does not always know how 
to answer such home questions. 

“ I’ll tell you more about it when I’ve seen you by daylight, 
Bertie. Are you in any pain?” 

‘‘Not a bit now: that's gone. But I’m weak, and 1 can’t stir 
about in bed, and— and— they all look at me so. This morning papa 
and Shuttleworth brought in Dr. Green. Any way, you must know 
that 1 shall not get to be as w’ell as 1 used to be.” 

” What with one ailment and another, with care, and pain, and 
sorrow, and wu’ong, it seems to me, Bertie, that very f<^w of us are 
well for long together. There’s always something in this world: it 
is only w^hen we go to the next that we can hope for rest and 
peace. ’ ’ 

Bertie lifted his restless hands and caught one of Dr. Knox’s be- 
tween them. He had a yearning, imploring look that quite pained 

the doctor. . . , . 

“ I want yr»u to forgive me, Arnold,” he said, the tears running 
down. ” When 1 remember how wicked 1 was, my heart just 
faints with shame. Calling all of you hideous names!— returning 
bitter words for kind ones. When we are going to die the past 
comes back to us. Such a little wliile it seems to have been now, 
Arnold! VVhy, if 1 had endured ten times as much pain, it would 
1)0 over now. \oii were all so gentle and patient with, me, and 1 
never careii what trouble 1 gave, or what ill words 1 returned. And 
now the time is gone! Arnold, 1 want you to forgive me.’ 

” My dear boy, there’s nothing to forgive. If you think there is, 
why then 1 forgive 3 ’ou with all my heart. 

Will God ever forgive me, do you think?” 

‘‘ Oh, my boy, yes,” said the doctor, in a husky tone. ‘ If we, 
poor sinful mortals, can forgive one another, how much more 
readily will He foigitre— the good Father in Heaven of us all! _ 

Bertie si^-hed. ” it would have beeu so easy for me to have tried 
for a little patience! Instead of that, 1 look pleasure in being cross 
and obstinate and wicked! If the time wouM but come over again! 
Arnold do you think we shall be able to do one another ffood in 
the next world?— or will the opportunity be lost with this?” 

” Ah, Bertie, 1 can not tell,” said Dr. Knox. bometimes 1 
think that lust because so fevr of us make use of our opportunities 
here. God will, perhaps, give us a chance once again. 1 have not 
been at very many death beds yet, but of some of those the recol- 
lection of opportunities wasted has made tiie chief sting. It is only 
when life is closing that we see what we might have been, what we 

*^^1? Perhaps^^Hedl remember what my pain has been, Arnold, and 
bow bard it was to bear. I was not like other boys. They can 
run, and climb, and leap, and ride on horseback, and do anything. 


DR. KNOX. 


106 

When I’ve gone out, it has been in a hand-carriage, you know; and 
I’ve had to lie and lie on the sofa, and just look up at the blue sky, 
or on the street that tired me so: or else in bed, where it was worse, 
and always hot. 1 hope He will recollect how hard it was for me.” 

” He saw how hard it was tor you at the time, Bertie; saw it 
always.” 

‘‘ And Jesus Christ forgave all who went to Him, you know, 
Arnold; every one; just for the asking.” 

” Why, 5 ^es, of course He did. As He docs now.” 

Mr. Tamlyn came into the room presently: he had been out to a 
patient. Seeing that Bertie was halt asleep, he and Dr. Knox stood 
talking together on the hearth-rug. 

” What’s that?” cried the surgeon, suddenl}’’ catching sight of 
the movement of the restless fingers picking at the counterpane. 

Dr. Knox did not answer. 

“ A trick he always had,” said the surgeon, breaking the silence, 
and tr 3 dng to make believe to cheat himself still. ” The maids say 
he wears out all his quilts.” 

Bertie ooened his eyes. ” Is that you, papa? Is tea over?” 

“ Why y^es, my boy; two or three hours ago,” said the father, go- 
ing forward. ” Why? Do you wish for some tea?” 

"‘Oh, 1—1 thought Arnold would have liked some.” 

He closed his eyes again directly. Dr Knox look leave in silence, 
promising to be there again in the morning. As he was passing 
the dining room down-stairs, he saw Mr. Shutlleworth, who had 
just looked in. They shook hands, began to chat, and Dr. Knox 
sat down. 

‘‘ 1 hear you do n(»t like Lefford,” he said. 

”1 don’t dislike Leftord: it’s a pretty and healthy place,” was 
Mr. Shuttleworth’s answer. ” What 1 dislike is my posilion in it 
as Tamljm’s partner. The practice won’t do for me.” 

” A doubt lay on my mind whetlier it woulil suit you when you 
came down to make the engagement,” said Dr, Knox. ” Parish 
work is not to every one’s taste." And there’s a great deal of practice 
besides. But the returns from that must be good.” 

” I’d not stay in it if it were worth a million a year,” cried Mi. 
Slmttievvorth. ” Dockett takes the parish; 1 make him; but he is 
not up to much yet, and of course 1 feel that 1 am responsible. As 
to tlie town practice, why 1 assure .you nearly all of it has lain on 
me. Tamlyn, poor fellow, can think of nothing but hisi bo}".” 

” He will not have him here long to think of,"l fear.” 

‘‘ Not very long; no. 1 hear, doctor, be is going to offer a part- 
nership to yon.” 

” He has said something about it. 1 shall take it if he does. 
Lefford is my native place, and 1 would rather live here than any- 
where. Besides, 1 don’t mind wmrk, ” he added with a smile. 

” Ah, .you are younger than 1 am. But I’d advise you, as I have 
advised Tamlyn, to give up the parish. For goodness’ sake do, 
Knox. Tamlyn says that at one time he had not mucn else hut the 
parish, but it’s different now. Your father had all the good 
practice then.” 

” Shall you set up elsewhere?” 

‘‘Not at present,” said Mr. Shutlleworth. ” AVe—l— perhaps 


DR. KNOX. 


107 

you have hearrl, tliou 2 ;’h— that 1 and Bessy are going to make a 
match of it? \Ve shall travel for a few months, or so, and then 
come home and pitch our tent in some pleasant sea-side place. It a 
little easy practice drops into me there, well and good; if not, we 
can do without it. Stay and smoke a cigar with me?" 

ArnoM looked at his watch, and sat down again. He wanted to 
ask Mr. Shuttleworih about Miss Carey's illness. 

" The cause of her illness was the loss of that bank-note," said 
the surgeon. " They accused her of stealing it, and wanted to give 
her into custody. A little more, and she’d have had brain-fever. 
She was a timid, inexperienced girl, and the fright gave her system 
a shock." 

" Miss Carey W'ould no more steal a bank-note than you or 1 
would steal one, Mr. Shuttleworth." 

" Not she. 1 told Mrs. Knox so: but she scoffed at me." 

" That ]\[iss Carey is innocent as the day, that she is an upright, 
gentle, Christian girl, 1 will stake my lite upon," said Dr. Knox. 
“ How the note can have gone is another matter." 

*• Arc you at all interested in finding it?" questioned Mr. Shutlle- 
W'orth. 

‘‘ Certainly 1 am. Every one ought to be, 1 think." 

The surgeon took his cigar from his mouth. " I’ll tell you my 
opinion, if you care to know it," he said. ‘‘ The note wms burned.” 

" Burned!" 

" Well, it is the most likely solution of the matter that 1 can come 
to. Either burned, or else was blown away." 

“ But rvhy do you say this?" questioned Dr, Knox. 

‘‘ It was a particularly windy day. The glass doors of the room 
were left open while the house ran about in a fright, attending to 
the child, young Dick. A flimsy bit of bank paper, lying on the 
table, wmuld gel blown about like a feather in a gale. Whether it 
got into the fire, caught by the current of the chimney, or whether 
it sailed out of doors and "disappeared in the air, is a question 1 can’t 
underlake to solve. Rely upon il, Knox, it was one of the two; 
ami 1 should bet upon the fire." 

It was just tbe clew Dr. Knox had been wishing for. But ho did 
not think' the whole fault lay with the wind: be had another idea. 

Ijefford had a shock in the morning. Bertie Tairdyn was dead. 
The news came to Dr. Knox in a note from Mr. Tarnlyn, wdiich 
was delivered while he was dressing. " You will stay for the 
funeral, Arnold," were the concluding words. And as Dr. Knox 
w^anted to be at home a little longer on his owui account, he wrote 
to London to say that business wms temporarily detaining him. He 
then went to see what lie could do tor Mr. Tamlyn, ami got back to 
Rose Villa for dinner. 

Watching for an opportunity— which did not occur until late in 
the afternoon— Dr. Knox startled the servants by walking into the 
kitchen, and sitting down. Mrs. Knox had gone oft in the pony- 
chaise; the cliiklren were out with the new governess. The kitchen 
and tile servants were alike smartened up for the rest of the day. 
Eliza, the cook, was making a new pudding-cloth; Bally was iron- 

" 1 wish to ask you both a few questions," said Dr. Knox, tak- 


DR. Kis'OX. 


108 

ing out his note-book and pencil. “ It is not possible that Miss 
Carey can be aJlou’ed to lie under tlie disgraceful accusation tbal was 
brought against her, and J am about to try and discover what be- 
came of the bank-note. Mrs. Knox w'as not in the house at the 
lime, and therefore can not give me the details," 

Eliza, who had risen and stood, work in hand, simpl}^ stared at 
the doctor in surpiise. Sally dropped her iron on the blanket. 

We didn’t take the note, sir," said Eliza, after a pause. " We’d 
not do such a thing." 

" ]’m sure 1 didn’t; I’d burn my hands off first,’’ broke in Sally, 
v/ith a burst of tears, 

" Of course you would not,” returned Dr. Knox in a pleasant tone. 
" The children would not. Mrs, Knox would not. But as the 
note un^’oubtedly disappeared, and without hands, we must try and 
discover where the m^^stery lies and how it went. 1 dare say 3 ’^ou 
would like Mies Carey to be cleared." 

" Miss Carey was a downright nice jmung lady,” pronounced the 
cook. “ Quite another sort fiom this one we’ve got now,” 

" Well, give me all the particulars as correctly as you can remem- 
ber,” said the doctor. " We may get some notion or other out of 
them.” 

Eliza plunsred into the narration. She was fond of talking. Sally 
stood over her ironing, sniffing and sighirg. Dr. Knox listened. 

‘‘ Mrs. Knox left the note on the table — which was much stiewed 
with papers— when she went out with Lady .Jenkins, and Miss 
Carey took her place at the accounts,” repeated Dr. Knox, summing 
up the profuse history in a few concise words. “ While—” 

"And Miss Carey declared, sir, that she never saw the note; 
never noticed it lying there at all,” came Eliza’s interruption. 

" Yes, just so. While Miss Carey was at the table, the alarm 
came that Master Dick had fallen out of the tree, and she ran to 
him—” 

" And a fine fright that fall put us into, sir ! We thought he was 
dead. Jim went galloping off for the doctor, and me and Sail}" and 
Miss Carey stayed batliing his head on that there very ironing- 
board, a-trying to find out what the damage was.” 

" And the children; where were they?” 

" All round us liere in the kitchen, sir. sobbing and staring.” 

" Meanwhile the garden-room was deserted. Kobody went into 
it, as far as you know.” 

" Nobody at all, sir. When Sally ran in to look at the fire, she 
found it had gone clean out. The doctor had been there then, and 
Master Richard was in berl, A fine pickle Sally found the room in, 
with the scraps of paper, and that, blown about tlie floor. The 
glass doors was standing stark staring open to the wind.” 

" And, 1 presume, you gathered up some of these scraps of paper, 
and lighted the fire with them, Sally? 

Dr. Knox did not appear to look at Sally as he spoke, but he saw 
and noted every movement. He saw^ that her hand shook so that 
siie could scarcely hold the iron. 

"Has it never struck you, Sally, that you might have put the 
bank-note into the grate with these scraps of papery and burned it?” 
he continued. "Innocently, of course. That is how 1 think the 


DR. KNOX. 


109 


note must liswe disappeared. Had the wind taken it into the gar- 
den, il would most probably have been found.’" 

Sally thing her apron over her lace, and herself on a chair, and 
burst into a howl. Eliza looked at her. 

“ If you think there is a probability that this was the case, Sally, 
you must say so,” continued Dr. Knox. “You will never be 
blamed, except lor not having spoken.” 

“ ’Twas only yesterday 1 asked Sally whether she didn’t think 
this was the way it might have been,” said the cook in a low tone 
to Dr. Knox. ” She have seemed so put out, sir, for a week past.” 

“ 1 vow to goodness that 1 never knew I did it,” sobbed Sall.y. 

” All the while the bother was about, and Miss Carey, poor young 
lady, was off her head, it never once struck me. When Eliza and 
me thought was, that some tramps must have come round the 
side of the house and got in at the open glass doors and stole it. 
The night after Miss Carey left with her aunt, 1 was thinking about 
lier as 1 lay in bed, and wondering whether the mistress would send 
the police after her or not, when all of a sudden the thought 
flashed across me that it might have gone into the fire with the other 
pieces of paper. Oh meicv, 1 wish 1 was somewhere!” 

“ What became of the ‘ashes out of the giate?— the cinders?” 
asked Dr. Knox. 

“ They’re all in the ash-place, sir, waiting till the garden s ready 
for them,” sobbed Sally. 

With as little delay as possible. Dr. Knox had the cinders care- 
fully sifted and examined, when the traces of wdiat had once un- 
doubtedly been a bank-note were discovered. The greater portion 
of the note had been reduced to tinder, but a small part of it re- 
mained enough to show what it had been and its number. It must 
have fallen o°ut of the grate partly consumed, while the fire was 
lio'hting up, and been swept underneath by Sally with other lem- 
mmts, where it had lain quietly until morning and been taken away 

with the ashes, . , , 

The traces gathered carefully into a small box and sealed up. Dr. 
Knox went into the presence of his step-mother. . , . , , 

“ I think,” he said, just showing the box as it lay in his hand, 
“ that this proof will be accepted by the Bank of England; in that 
case they will make good the money to me. One question, mother, 
1 wish to ask you: how could you possibly suspect Miss Carey? 

“ There w'as no one else for me to suspect,” replied JMrs. Knox 
in a fretful tone; for she did not at all like this turn in the affair. 

“ Did you suspect her?” , x vi 

“ Wliy, of course 1 did. How can you ask such foolish qiies- 


' “ Vt was a great mistake in any case to take it up as you did. 1 
am not alluding to the suspicion now; but to your harsh and cruel 

“ Just miud your own business, Arnold. It’s nothing to you. 

“ Eor iny own part, 1 regard it as a matter that we must ever 
look hack upon with shame.” 

“ There, that’s enough,” said Mrs. Knox. The thing is done 
with and it can not he recalled. Janet Carey w^oii’t. die of it. 

Dr. Knox went about Leflord with the box in his hand, making 


110 


DR. KNOX. 


Iliinijs riirlit. Ue called in at the police station; he caused a minute 
account to be put in the “ Leftord News;” he related the details to 
private triends. ISIot once did he allude to Janet Carey, or mention 
her name; it was as thonglihe would proudly ignore tlie stigma cast 
on her and assume that the world did the same. The world did, 
hut it gave some hard words to Mrs. Knox. 

Mr. Tainljm had not much sjunpathy tor wonders of any kind 
just then. Poor Bertie, lying cold and still in the chamber above, 
took up all his thoughts and his grief. Arnold spent a good deal 
of time with him, and tooK; his round of patients. 

It was the night before the funeral, and they were sitting to- 
gellier at twilight in the dining-room. Dr. Knox was looking 
tiirouirh the large window at the fountain in the middle of the grass- 
plot: jdr. Tamlyn had his face on his knees; he hud not looked up 
lor the last half hour. 

” When is the very earliest time that you can come, Arnold?” he 
began abruptly. 

” As soon as ever they will release me in London. Perhaps that 
will be in a month; perhaps not until the end of June, when the six 
months will be up.” 

Mr. Tamlyn groaned. “ 1 want you at once, Arnold. You are 
all 1 have now.” 

‘‘ IShuttleworth must stay until I come.” 

” Shuttleworth’s hot you. You must live with me, Arnold?” 

” Live with you?” 

” Why of course you must. 'What am 1 to do in this large house 
by myself now he is gone? Bessy will be cone too. 1 couldn’t 
stand it.” 

” It would be much more convenient for me to be here, as far as 
the practice is concerned,” remarked Dr. Knox, after reflection. 

‘‘ And more sociable. Do you never think of mariiage, Arnold?” 

Dr. Knox turned a little red. ” It has been of no use for me to 
think of it hitherto, you know, sir.” 

” 1 wish you would. Some nice, steady girl, who would make 
things pleasant here torus in Bessy’s place. There’s room for a wdfe 
as well as for you, Arnold. Think of these empty rooms; nobody 
but and me in them I And you know people like a married 
medical man bettei than a single one.” 

The doctor opened his lips to speak, but his courage failed him; 
he would leave it to the last thing before he left on the morrow, or 
else write from London. Tamlyn mistook his silence. 

” You’ll be well enough oft to keep two wives, it the law allowed 
it, let alone one. From the day you join me, Arnold, half the 
profits shall be yours— I’ll have the deed made out— and the whole 
practice at my death. I’ve nobody to save for, now^ Bertie’s gone.” 

‘‘ He is better oft; he is in happiness,” said Dr. Knox, his voice a 
little husky. 

” A3^ 1 try to let it console me. But I’ve nobody but you now, 

Arnold. And 1 don’t suppose 1 shall forget you in mv will. To 
confess the triitli, the turning you away to make room for Shuttle- 
worth has lain on m3’' conscience.” 

When Arnold reached home that night, Mrs. Knox and her eldest 
daughter were alone; she reading, Mina dressing a doll. Leftord 


DR. KNOX. 


Ill 


was a place that went in for propriety, ami nobody gave soirees 
while Bertie Tamlyn lay dead. Arnold told Mrs. Knox of the new 

arrangement. t i. 

“ Good ‘Tiacious!’' she exclaimed. “ Coming back to Lettord! 
Well, 1 sliall be glad to have you at home again,'’ she added, think- 
ing of the househokt bills. _ 

“ Mr. Tamlyn proposes that I shall live with him,” said Dr. 


” lint you will never be so stupid as to do thatV’ 

” 1 have promised to do it. It will be much more convenient.” 

Mrs. Knox looked sullen, and bit her lip. ” How much of a 
share ire you to have?” 

” 1 go in as full partner.” 

“Oh, i am so glad!” cried out Miss Mina -for they all liked 
their good-natured brother. ” Arnold, perha^is you’ll go and get 
married now!” 

” Perhaps 1 may,” he answered. 

Mrs. Knox dropped her book in the sudden fright. If Arnold 
married, he might want his house— and turn her out of it! He read 


the fear in her lace. ^ o -^7 

" We may make some arrangement,” said he quietly. lou 
shall still occupy it and pay me a small nominal rent five pounds 
a year, say — which 1 shall probably return in toys for the children ” 
The thought of his maniage had always lain upon her with a 
thorny dread. ” Who is the lady?” she asked. 

” The lady? Oh, 1 can’t tell you, I’m sure. I have not asked 
any one yet.” 

” Is that all?” 


” Quite all— at present.” 

”1 thick.” said Mrs. Knox slowly, as if deliberating the point 
witli herself, and in the most affectionate of tones, “that you 
would be happier in a single life, Arnold. One never knows what 

a wife is till she’s tried.” _ , , . -mi. 

‘‘ Do you think so? Well, we must leave it to the future, what 

will be, will be.” 


And now 1 am taking up the story for myself.; 1, Johnny Lud- 
low Had i gone straight on with it after that last night of Janet s 
sleep-walking at INliss Deveen’s, you would never have understooil. 

It was on the Saturday night that Janet was found out — as any- 
body must remember who took the trouble to count up the nights 
•md’ days^ On the Sunday morning early. Miss Deveen’s doctor 
was sent tor. Dr. Galliard happened to be out of town, so Mr. 
Black attended for him. Cattledon was liKe vinegar. She looked 
upon Janet’s proceedings as a regular scandal, and begged Miss 
Deveen’s pardon for having brought her niece into the house. Upon 

v\ hich she was requested not to be silly. 

Miss Deveen told the whole tale of the lost bank-note, to me and 
to Helen and Anna Whitney; at least, as much as she knew of it 
herself. Janet was innocent as a child; she felt sure of thaU she 
said, and much to be pitied; and that Mrs. K^x, of Lettord 
seemed to be a most undesirable kind of person. To us it sounded 
like a romance, or a story out of a newspaper police report. 


DR. KNOX. 


112 

Monday came in; a warm, briirlit April-day. 1 was returninp: to 
Oxfoid in the evening — and why 1 hud nol returned in the past 
week, as ought to have been the case, there’s no space to tell of 
here. Miss Deveen said we might go for a wuIk it we liked. But 
Helen and Anna did not seem to care about it; neither did 1, to say 
the truth. A house with amarvel in it has attractions; and we w'ould 
by far rather have gone upstairs to see Janet. Janet W’as better, 
(piite composed, but weak, they said: she was up and dressed, and 
in Miss Deveen’s own blue-room. 

“ Well, do you mean to go out, or not, you young people?” 
asked Miss Deveen. ” Dear me, here are visitors!” 

George came in bringing a card. ” Dr. Knox.” 

” Why! it must he some one from that woman at Lefford!” ex- 
claimed Miss Deveen, in an undertone to me. ” Oh, no; i remem- 
ber now, Johnny; Dr. Knox w’as the step-son; lie was away anil 
had nothing to do with it. Show Dr. Knox in, George.” 

A tall man in black, whom one might have taken anywhere for a 
doctor, with a grave, nice face, came in. He said his visit was to 
Miss Carey, as he took the chair George placed near his mistiess. 
Just a few words, and then we knew the whole, and saw a small 
sealed- up box in his hand, which contained the remains of the 
bank- note. 

” 1 am more glad than though you brought Janet a purse of 
gold!” cried IMiss Deveen, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. ” JNot 
tiiat 1 think any one could have doubted her. Dr. Knox — not even 
your step mother, in her heart— but it is satis factory to have it cleared 
up. It has made Miss Carey verv ill; but this will set her at rest.” 

” Aour servant told me Miss Carey was ill,” he said. ” It was 
for her 1 asked.” 

With a face of concern, he listened to what Miss Deveen had to 
say of the illness. When she spoke of Janet’s fright at seeing the 
policeman at tlie Colosseum, his brow w^ent red and he bit his lips. 
Next came the sleep-walking: she told it all. 

” Her biaiu and nerves must have been overstrained to an alarm 
ing degree,” he otserved, after a short silence. ‘‘ Mr. Shuttle- 
worth, who attended her at the time, spoke to me of the shock to 
the system. But 1 hoped she had recovered.” 

” She would never have recovered. Dr. Knox, so long as the 
dread lay upon her that she was to be criminally prosecuted: at 
least, that is my opinion,” said Miss Deveen. ” 1 believe the chief 
thing that ails her is fright. Not a knock at the door, not the 
marching past the house of a policeman, not the sudden entrance of 
a servant into the room, but has brought to her a shock of agoniz- 
ing fear. It is a mercy that she has escaped brain fever. After 
all, she must possess a good constitution. The sight of that man 
from Lefford at the Colosseum did great mischief.” 

” It wurs unfortunate that he should happen to be there,” said 
Dr. Knox: ” and that the man should have dared to accost her with 
his insolence! But 1 shall inquire into it.” 

‘‘ What you ha?e in that box will be the best medicine for her,” 
said Miss Deveen. ‘‘ It will speedily effect a cure— or call me an 
untrue prophet. Dear me! how strangely things come out!” 


DR. KNOX. 


113 

“ Mny I ])e allowed to see JMiss Carey?” asked Dr. Knox. “ And 
to — to tell her the story ol her cleat ance in own way?” 

Miss Deveen made no reply. iShe looked at Dr. Knox, and 
seemed to hesitate. 

“ I think it may be better tor IMiss Caiey that I should, madam. 
For more reasons than one.” 

And really I don’t see why you should not,” said Miss Deveen, 
heartily. ” I hesitated because Mr. Black forbade the admission ot 
strangers. But — perhaps you are not a stiaoger to her?” 

” Oh, dear no: 1 and Miss Carey are old friends,” he answered, a 
curious smile hghtimi up his face. ” And 1 should also wish to see 
her in my medical capacity.” 

But the one to put in her word against this was Cattledon. She 
came down looking green, and protesting in Miss Deveen ’s ear that 
no male subject in Her Majesty’s dominions, save and except Mr. 
Black, ought to be admitted to the blue-room. Janet had no full 
tiress on; nothing but skirts and a shawd. 

” Oh, nonsense!” cried Miss Deveen. “ Why Dr. Knox might 
have seen her had she been in bed: he is a physician.” And she 
took him up herself to the blue-room. 

” Of all old maids that Cattledon ’s the worst!” nodded Helen 
Whitney. 

Miss Deveen went in alone, leaving him outside the door. Janet 
sat in an arm-chair by the fire, muffled in an old brown shawl of 
Cattledon’s. 

And how do you feel now, mv dear?” said Miss Deveen, 
quietly. “ Better, 1 see. And, oh, 1 have such pleasant news tor 
you: an old friend of yours has called to see you; and I think— I 
think — he will be able to cure you sooner than Mr. Black. It is Dr. 
Knox, my dear: not ot Leflord now, you know: of London.” 

She called the doctor in, and Janet’s pale cheeks took a tint of 
crimson. Janet’s face had never been big; but as he stood looking 
at her, her hand in Jiis, he was shocked to see how small it had be- 
come. Miss Deveen shut the door upon them. She hoped with all 
her heart he was not going to spare that woman at Lefford. 

” Janet, my dear,” he said in a fatherly kind ot way as he drew 
a chair near her and kept her hand, ” when that trouble happened 
at home, how was it you did not write to me?” 

‘‘ Write to you/ Oh, sir, 1 could not do such a thing,” an- 
swered Janet, beginning to tremble. 

‘‘ But you might have known 1 should be your friend. You 
might also have known that 1 should have been able to clear jmu.” 

‘‘ 1 did once think ot writing to you,. Dr. Knox: just to tell you 
that 1 had not indeed touched the bank-note,” faltered Tanet. ‘‘ As 
the money came from you, 1 should have liked to write so much. 
But 1 did not dare.” 

‘‘And you preferred to softer all these weeks of pain, and the 
fright brought upon you by Mrs. Knox — for wdiich,” said he de- 
liberately, ‘‘ I shall never forgive her— rather than drop me a tew 
lines! You must never be so foo]i^>h again, Janet. 1 should have 
gone to Lefford at once and searched out the mystery of the note— 
and found it.” 


DR. KNOX. 


114 

Janet moved her lips and shook her head, as much as to say that 
he could never have done that. 

“ But 1 have done it,” said he. “I have been down to LeffortI 
and tound it all out, and have brought the bank-note up with me— 
what remains of it. Sally was the culprit.” 

“ Sally!” gasped Janet, going from red to white. 

” Sally — but not intentionally. She liirhted the fire that after- 
noon with the note and some more scraps. The note tell out, only 
partly burned*, and 1 am going to take it to the bank that they may 
exchange it for a whole one,” 

” And— will— they?” panted Janet. 

” Of course they will; ii is in the regular course of business that 
they should,” affirmed Dr. Knox, deeming it best to be positive for 
lier sake. ” JNow, Janet, if you are to tremble like ihis, I shall go 
away and send up Miss Catlledon— and she does not look as if she 
had a very amiable temper. Why, my dear child, you ought to 
be glad.” 

” Oh, so 1 am, so I am!” she said, breaking into sobs. ‘‘ And — 
does everybody know at Lefiord that 1 was innocent?” 

“ Nobody at Lefiord believed you guilty. Of course, it is all 
known, and in the newspapers too — how Sally lighted the fire with 
a fifty-pound bank-note, and the remains were fished out of the 
ashes.” 

‘‘ Mrs. Knox — Mrs. Knox — ” She could not go on for airitation. 

” As to Mrs. Knox, 1 am not sure but we might prosecute her. 
Rely upon one thing, Janet: that she will not be very well wel- 
comed at her beloved soirees for some long time to come.” 

Janet looked at the fire and thought. Dr. Knox kept silence, that 
she might recover herself after the news. 

‘‘ 1 shall get well now,” she said in a half whisper. ” 1 shall 
soon ” — turning to him — ” be able to take another situation. Do 
you think Mrs. Knox will dve me a recommendation? ’ 

” Yes, that she will — when it’s wanted,” said he, with a queer 
smile. 

She sat in silence again, a tinge of color in her face, and seeing 
fortunes in the fire. “ Oh, the relief, the relief!” she murniuieci, 
slightly liftmg^her hands. ” To feel that 1 may be at peace and fear 
nothing! 1 am very thankful to you, Dr. Knox, tor all things.” 

‘‘ Do you know what 1 think would do you good?” said Dr, 
Knox suddenly. ‘‘ A drive. The day is so fine, the air so balmy; 
1 am sure it would strengthen you. W ill you go?” 

” If you please, sir, I do feel stronger, since you told me this.” 

He went down and spoke to Miss Deveen. She Heartily atrreed; 
anything that would benefit the poor girl, she said; and the carriage 
was coming round to the door, for she had been thinking of going 
out herself. Cattledon could not oppose them, tor she had stepped 
over to the curate’s. 

” Would you very much mind — would you pardon me it 1 asked 
to be allowed to accompany her alone?” said Dr. Knox, hurrieclly 
to Miss Deveen, as Janet was coining down-stairs on Lettice’s arm, 
dressed for the drive. 

Miss Deveen was taken by surprise. He spoke as though he were 
flurried, and she saw the red look on his face. 


DR. KNOX. 


115 

“ 1 can take care of her as perhaps no one else could/’ he added 
with a smile. “And 1 — 1 want to ask her a question, Miss De- 
veeu.” 

“ 1— think— 1— understand you,” she said, smiling back at him. 
“ Well, you shaR go. Miss Cattledon will talk of propriety, 
though, when she comes home, and be ready to snap us all up.” 

And Cattledi n was. AVhcn she iound Janet had been let go for a 
slow and easy drive, with no escort but Dr. Knox inside, and the 
fat coachman on the box, she conjectured that Miss Deveen must 
have taken leave ot her senses. Cattledon took up her station at the 
window to wait for their return, firing out words ot temper every 
other second. 

^ The air must liave done Janet good. She came in from the car- 
riage on Dr. Knox’s arm, her cheeks bright, her pretty eyes oast 
down, and looking quite another girl. 

“ Have you put your question. Dr. Knox?” asked Miss Deveen, 
meeting him in the hall, while Janet came on. 

‘‘Yes, and had it answered,” he said brightly. “Thank you. 
dear INIiss Deveen; 1 see we have your sympathies.” 

She just took his hand in hers and squeezed it. It was the first 
day she liad seen him, but she liked his face. 

Catlledou began upon Janet at once. If she felt well enough to 
start off on promiscuous drives, she must be well enough to see 
about a situation. 

“ 1 have ])een speaking to her of one. Miss Cattledon,” said Dr. 
Knox, catching the words as he came in. ”1 think she wilt ac- 
cept it.” 

“ Wiiere is it?” asked Cattledon. 

“ At Letford. ” 

“ She sludl never go back to Kose Villa with m}'- consent, sir. 
And I think you ought to know better than to propose it to her.” 

“ To Rose Villa! Certainly not: at least at present. Rose Villa 
will be hers, though; the only little settlement that can be made 
upon her.” 

The words struck Cattledon silent. But she could see through a 
brick wall. 

“ Perhaps you want her, young man?” 

“ Yes, 1 do. 1 should have wanted her before this, but that 1 
had no liome to offer her. 1 have one now ; and good prospects 
too. Janet has had it all explained to her. Perhaps you will allow 
me to explain it to you. Miss Cattledon.” 

“ I’m sure it’s more than Janet Carey could have expected,” said 
Cattledon, growing mollitied as she listened. “ She’s a poor thing. 

I hope she will make a irood wife!” 

“ 1 will risk it. Miss Cattledon.” 

“ And she shall be married from my house,” struck in Miss De- 
veen. ‘‘ Johnny, if you young Oxford blades can get here for it, I 
will have you all to the wedding.” 

And we did get there for it: 1, and Tod, and William Whitney. 
And saw the end, so far, of Janet Carey. 


THE END. 



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228 Princess Napraxine. By “ Oui- 

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241 The Baby’s Grandmother. By 

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242 The Two Orphans. ByD’Ennery 10 
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245 Miss Tommy, and In a House- 

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246 A Fatal Dower. By the author 

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247 The Armourer’s Prentices. By 

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248 The House on the Marsh. F. 


249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

By author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline. By the au- 
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251 The Daughter of the Stars, and 

Other Tales. By Hugh Con- 
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252 A Sinless Secret. By “ Rita”.. 10 

253 The Amazon. By Carl Vosmaer 10 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair but 


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255 The Mystery. By Mrs. Henry 

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259 Tlie Bride of Monte-Cristo. (A 

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860 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 

261 A Fair Maid. By F. W. Robinson 20 
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Parti By Alexander Dumas 20 

262 The Count of Monte Cristo. 

Part II. By Alexander Dumas 20 

263 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. 

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264 Piedouche, A French Detective. 

By Foi'tun6 Du Boisgobey 10 

265 Judith Shakespeare; Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures. 

By William Black 15 

266 The Water- Babies. AFa;iryTale 

for a Land-Baby. By the Rev. 
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267 Laurel Vane; or, The Girls’ 

Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh Miller 20 

868 Lady Gay’s Pride; or. The 
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Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

269 Lancaster’s Choice. By Mrs. 

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274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 

Priiice.«s of Great Britain and 
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275 The O'hree Brides. Charlotte M. 

Yonge 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. By 

Florence Marryat (Mrs. Fran- 
cis Lean) 

277 The Surgeon’s Daughters. By 

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His Word. By W. E. Norris. 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison . 

279 Little Goldie. Mrs. Sumner Hay- 

den v,'* 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale Ol So- 

ciety. By Mrs. Forrester 10 

281 The Squire’s Legacy. By Jlary 

Cecil Hay ••••• ^5 

282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 

Donald ... •. •••• 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ” ... 10 
884 Doris. By “ The Duchess ” . 10 


20 

20 

20 

10 


10 


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28.5 The Gambler’s Wife - 20 

286 Deldee ; or. The Iron Hand. By 

F. Warden 20 

287 At War With Herself. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 

True Light. By a “Brutal 
Saxon ’’ ; 10 

290 Nora’s Love Test. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

291 Love’s Warfare. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne’’ 10 

292 A Golden Heart. By the author 

of “Dora Thorne’’ 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin. By the 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

294 Hilda. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne’’. 10 

295 AAVoman’sWar. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ’’ 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns. By the au- 
thor of “Dora Thorne’’ 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ’’ lO 

298 Mitchelhurst Place. By Dlarga- 

ret Veley 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

fi-om the Sea. By the author 
of “ Dora Thorne ’’ 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne ’’ 10 

301 Dark Days. By Hugh gonway. 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest. By 

Hugh Conway 10 

303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

ter than Death. By the author 
of “ Dora Thorne ’’ 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ’’ 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline's Dream. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ’’ 16 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for a 

Day. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

307 Two Kisses, and Like No Other 

Love. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne’’ 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

309 The Pathfinder. By J. Feni- 

moi e Cooper 20 

310 The Prairie. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. By 

R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

312 A Week inKillarney. By “The 

Duchess’’ 10 

313 The Lover’s Creed. By Mrs. 

Cashel Hoey 15 

314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill. .. . 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

316 Sworn to Silence ; or. Aline Rod- 

ney’s Secret. Bj' Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 20 




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818 The Pioneers; or, The Sources 

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819 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

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820 A Bit of Human Nature. By 

David Cliristie Murray 10 

821 The Prodigals: And Their In- 

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822 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

828 A Willful Maid 20 

824 In Luck at Last. By Walter 

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825 The Portent. By George Mac- 

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826 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance 

for Men and Women. By 

George Macdonald 10 

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tne German of E. Werner.) 

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Chatrian 10 

830 May Blossom ; or, Between Two 

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S.3I Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price.. 20 

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833 Frank Fairlegh ; or. Scene? 

from the Life of a Private 
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335 The White Witch. A Novel.... 20 

836 Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 
Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
Including Some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. By 
Mrs. Oliphant 20 

838 The Family Difficulty. By Sarah 

Doudney 10 

839 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander 10 

840 Under Which King? By Comp- 

ton Reade 20 

841 Madoliu Rivers; or. The Little 

Beauty of Red )ak Seminary, 

By Laura Jean Libbey 20 

842 The Baby, and One New Year’s 

Eve. By “The Duchess”.... 10 


844 “ The Wearing of the Green.” 

By Basil 20 

845 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant.... ^ 

846 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

Muir 10 

847 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

848 From Post to Finish. A Racing 

Romance. By Hawley Smart 2b 


NO. PRICE. 


349 The Two Admirals. A Tale of 

the Sea. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 29 

350 Diana of the Crossways. By 

George Meredith 18 

351 The House on the Moor. By 

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352 At Any Cost. By Edward Gar- 

rett 

353 The Black Dwarf, and A Leg- 

end of Montrose. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 20 

354 The Lottery of Life. A Story 

of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. By John Brougham... 20 

355 That Terrible Man. By W. E. 

Norris. The Princess Dago- 
mar of Poland. By Heinrich 
Felbermann 10 

356 A Good Hater. By Frederick 

Boyle 20 

357 John. A Love Story. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 2# 

358 Within the Clasp. By J. Ber- 

wick Harwood 20 

359 The Water-Witch. By J, Feni- 


360 Ropes of Sand. By R. E. Fran- 

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361 The Red Rover, A Tale of the 

Sea. B}'^ J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

362 The Bi’ide of I/ammermoor. 

By Sir Walter Scott 20 

363 The Surgeon’s Daughter. By 

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364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 10 

365 George Christy; or. The Forb> 

unes of a Minstrel. By Tony 
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366 The Mysterious Hunter; or. 

The Man of Death. By Capt, 

L. C. Carleton 20 

367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart 20 

368 The Southern Star ; or. The Dia- 

mond Land. By Jules Verne 20 

369 Miss Bretherton, By Mrs. Hum- 

phry Ward ]0 

370 LucyCrofton. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

371 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs, Oli- 

phant 20 

372 Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 

thor of “ His Wedded Wife 10 

373 Wing-and-Wing. J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 


374 The Dead Man's Secret ; or. The 

Adventures of a Medical Stu- 
dent. By Dr. Jupiter Paeon.. 20 

375 A Ride to Khiva. By Capt. Fred 

Burnaby, of the Royal Horse 


Guards 20 

376 The Crime of Christmas-Day. 

By the author of “ My Duc- 
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377 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story 

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10 


10 


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378 Homeward Bound; or, The 

Chase. J. Fenimore Cooper. . 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“ Homewai’d Bound.”) By J. 
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380 Wyandotte; or. The Hutted 

Knoll. J. Fenimore Cooper. . 

381 The Red Cardinal. By Frances 

Elliot 

382 Three Sisters; or, Sketches of 

a Hitthly Original Family. 

By Elsa D’Esterre-Keeling. . . 

383 Inti-oduced to Society. By Ham- 

ilton Aid6 10 

354 On Horseback Through Asia 

Minor. Capt. Fred Burnaby. 20 

385 The Headsman; or, The Abbaye 

des Vignerons. By J. Feui- 
more Cooper 20 

386 Led Astray ; or. “La Petite Comt- 

esse.” By Octave Feuillet. . . 

387 The Secret of the Clitfs. By 

Charlotte French 

388 Addie’s Husband; or. Through 

Clouds to Sunshine. By the 
author of “ Love or Lauds?” 10 

389 Ichabod. By Bertha Thomas... 10 

390 Mildred Trevaniou. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian. By 

Sir Walter Scott 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 20 

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394 The Bravo. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 

395 The Archipelago on Fire. By 

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396 Robert Old’s Atonement. By 

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397 Lionel Lincoln ; or. The Leaguer 

of Boston. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

398 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan 

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399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee. . 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish. 

By J. Feuimore Cooper 20 

401 AVaverley. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

402 Lilliesleaf ; or. Passages in the 

Life of Mrs. Margaret Jlait- 
land of Sunnyside. By .Mrs. 
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403 An English Squire. C. R. Cole- 

ridge 20 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ”. 10 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

406 The Merchant’s Clerk. By Sam 

uel Warren 10 

407 Tylney Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 

408 Lester’s Secret. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

409 Roy’s Wife By G. J. Whyte- 

Melville 20 

410 Old Lady Mary. By DIrs. Oli- 

pbant 


20 

10 

20 


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411 A Bitter Atonement. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
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412 Some One Else. ByB. M. Crokei 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Feni- 
more Cooper 20 

414 Miles AVallingford. (Sequel to 

“ Afloat and Ashore.”) By J. 
Feuimore Cooper 20 

415 The W’ays of the Hour. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

416 Jack Tier; or, The Florida Reef. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth; or, St. 

Valentine's Day. BySirAVal- 
ter Scott 20 

418 St. Ronan’s Well. By Sir AVal- 

ter Scott 20 

419 The Chainbearer ; or. The Little- 

page Manuscripts. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

420 Satanstoe; or. The Littlepage 

Manuscripts. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

421 The Redskins; or, Indian and 

Injiu, Being the conclusion 
of The Littlepage Manu- 
scripts. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

422 Precaution. J.Feuimore Cooper 20 
4^ The Sea-Lions; or. The Lost 

Sealers. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or. The 

A’^oyage to Cathay. By J, 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

425 The Oak Openings ; or. The Bee- 

Hunter. J. Fenimore Cooper. 20 

426 Venus's Doves. Bj’^ Ida Ash- 

worth Taylor 20 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 

Thomas Upmore, Bai t.. M.P., 
formerly known as “ Tommy 
Upmore.” R. D. Blackmore. 20 

428 Z^ro; A Story of Monte-Carlo. 

By Mrs. Campbell Praed 10 

429 Boiilderstone; or. New' Men and 

Old Populations. By AViliam 
Sirae 10 

430 A Bitter Reckoning. By the 

author of "Ily Crooked Paths” 10 

431 The Monikins. By J. Fenimore ' 

Cooper 20 

432 The AV itch’s Head. By H. Rider 

Haggard 29 

433 My Sister Kate. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne,” and A Rainy June. 

By “Ouida” 10 

434 AVyl lard’s AA’'eird. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

435 Klytia : A Story of Heidelberg 

Castle. By George Taylor.... 20 

436 Stella. By Fanny Lewald 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 

Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 20 


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408 Lester’s Secret. 1^ Mary Cecil Hay. 20 

418 St. Ronan’s Well. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

419 The Chainbearer ; dr, Tlie Littlepage 

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420 Satanstoe; or, The Littlepage Manu- 

scripts. By J. Fenimore Cooper. . . 

421 The Redskins; or, Indian and Injin. 

Being the conclusion of The Little- 
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422 Precaution. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

423 The Sea-Lions ; or, The Lost Sealers. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 

424 Mercedes of Castile ; or, The Voyage 

to Cathay. By J. Fenimore Cooper 

425 The Oak-Openings; or. The Bee- 

Hunter. By J. Fenimore Cooper. . 

429 Boulderstone; or. New Men and Old 
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20 


20 


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20 


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430 A Bitter Reckoning. By the author 
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432 The Witch’s Head. By H. Rider Hag- 

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433 My Sister Kate. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne,” 
and A I^iny June. By ” Ouida ” . . 

434 Wyllard’s Weird. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 

438 Found Out. By Helen B. Mathers... 

439 Great Expectations. By Charles 

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440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings. By Charles 

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441 A Sea Change. By Flora L. Shaw. . . 20 


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